


Expecting to Fly

by RuArcher (Coriesocks)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Draco is Daphne Zunega, Excessive Drinking, Fluff, Getting Together, Harry is John Cusack, Harry really wants to get laid, Light Angst, M/M, Road Trip, University AU, drinking as a coping mechanism, fantasies, implied Harry/other male characters, the sure thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher
Summary: While at university in America, Harry plans a cross-country trip to get laid. He doesn’t count on having to take this trip with Draco Malfoy.





	Expecting to Fly

**Author's Note:**

> This is a drarrified rewrite of The Sure Thing, directed by Rob Reiner, but I’ve changed some bits up to fit better with the characters and to accommodate some magic.  
> Gary and Mary Ann are both taken directly from the film, as are chunks of their dialogue.  
> I’ve never been to Brown and while I’ve done my best to research, I’ve also tweaked some things to make it fit, so apologies to anyone horrified by my mangling of Rhode Island, Providence, Brown, and America in general!
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta/alpha/american pickers L, E, and C, and to anyone else who listened to me whine about how much this took over my life. Thank you also to the LCD mods, first for organising the fest, but also for being wonderful and allowing me an extension when I severely under-estimated how long this would be :):)

Harry turns his wand in his fingers. It hasn’t felt right since that night and he’s starting to doubt it ever will. A ministry official had offered to buy it off him in the aftermath of the war, and now he thinks he may have been a little hasty in telling him to fuck off and die. He assumes they wanted to memorialise it, stick in a dusty display cabinet somewhere and charge people a small fortune to gaze upon it, but that doesn’t sit right with him. They’d probably stick _him_ in a display cabinet if they could, he’s sure. Maybe once he’s gone, far away from the Ministry vultures, the adoring gazes, the responsibility of being everyone’s saviour, maybe then he and his wand can bond again. 

He stuffs the length of holly in his pocket and turns his attention back to the extraordinarily lavish end-of-year party McGonagall has thrown for the seventh and eighth years. Unlike other times, when they were just allowed to take over one of the larger empty classrooms for the night, this year the party is outside in a secluded part of the castle grounds. Perhaps it’s because there’s so many of them, or perhaps she’s anticipating that they’ll get a little rowdy and would rather limit the damage they can do. Either way, Harry isn’t complaining. A huge bonfire is encircled by low benches over towards the lake, reflections of the flames glittering on the broken surface of the water, and there are tables laden with more food and drink than they could possibly consume. Fairies perch amongst the branches of the surrounding trees, their small bodies luminescent, and dozens of floating lanterns fill the night sky above their heads. Harry watches his friends and classmates enjoying themselves, their faces glowing warmly in the soft light, laughing and smiling and alight with joy. He’ll miss it here. Hogwarts has been such a massive part of his life for the past eight years and it’s hard to imagine what life will be like without it.

A noise to his left catches his attention and he looks around, a smile ready on his lips that quickly morphs into a grimace when he sees Ron with his tongue down Hermione’s throat. He loves his friends, he really does, but that doesn’t mean he wants to witness graphic displays of their love for each other. Especially when his own love life is depressingly barren. Speaking of which…

He spots Lisa, wandering over to one of the food tables, finally away from her gaggle of friends, and he makes his move. He’s had half an eye on her for a while now—she’s funny, reasonably pretty, doesn’t fawn over him like so many other people, and she’s got a sarcastic streak that rivals his own—but he’s never had the courage to try anything with her. Now, though, with the aid of alcohol and the knowledge that if he fucks up he’ll never have to see her again, he feels brave—and desperate—enough to give it a go. What’s the worst that can happen? 

“Hi, Lisa.” He offers her a smile and a wave, and when she doesn’t immediately turn and flee, congratulates himself for the good strong start. 

Lisa beams at him. Her cheeks are flushed, and he hopes it’s due to the heat from the bonfire and not the effect of too much beer. “Harry! You enjoying the party? Can you believe McGoggles let us have booze? It’s mad!” 

“Yeah!” 

Lisa watches him with too-bright eyes and he realises he needs to say something else. Fuck. How do people have conversations? This is probably the reason why his dick is so lonely. 

“Um…yeah, so…did she actually allow it? I mean, I thought Seamus and Blaise smuggled it in. We should probably be careful, don’t want to get expelled at the last minute or have her take away our NEWTs or something.” Merlin, now he sounds like Hermione. He chuckles and scratches a hand through his hair, knocking his glasses crooked in the process. The way to a girl’s heart, or at the very least, into her knickers, is probably not to lecture her about being responsible.

“Oh, Harry.” She laughs, smiling at him like he’s a confused, elderly wizard who’s trying to use his wand the wrong way round. “As if she doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. By turning a blind eye, she’s effectively giving us permission to do whatever the fuck we want. And I don’t know about you, but I am ready to let my hair down!”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. I knew that.” He tries to regroup. “I like your hair. It’s very…nice. Shiny.” It’s a wonder he’s not beating suitors back with a broomstick with lines as smooth as this, he thinks, with a sharp mental kick up his arse.

“What?”

“Your hair,” he says, pointing at his own in case it was the word she was stuck on, rather than the fact he was unable to string a proper sentence together.

“Oookay, good to know. Well, I should—” she nods in the direction of the food table and starts to walk away.

“Don’t you think the stars look amazing out here?” he blurts. It’s not the best thing he’s ever said, but at least she’s stopped walking away. She raises her eyebrows questioningly and he frantically searches his brain for something else to add. “There are so many, you know? It makes me feel so small, so insignificant, thinking about how vast the universe is.”

Lisa stares at him for a few beats, her face expressionless, and Harry’s heart starts to gallop in his chest. He doesn’t hold out much hope for success, but there’s a chance she might find him endearing. Merlin, why was it so hard just to get a snog or maybe a bit of dry humping against a tree?

“Do you have a favourite constellation?” Harry continues when Lisa doesn’t say anything. His brain screams at his mouth to shut up, but the message clearly isn’t getting through. “I like Cassiopeia. The freckles on your cheek kind of look like Cassiopeia, did anyone tell you that before?” It’s like he’s watching himself from outside of his body; hurtling towards rejection but unable to do anything.

“Oh my life, Harry. What are you like?” she cries, laughing so much that tears start to track down her cheeks. “Are you pissed, or what?”

“Ha, yeah. Absolutely off my nut,” Harry mumbles, hoping that she can’t see how red his face is in the low light.

“Circe’s tits. You had me going for a minute there.” Her laughter trails off and she wipes her tear-streaked face on the back of her hand. “Well, see you around, Harry. Have fun!” 

Harry watches her walk off, shame from the rejection curdling in his stomach. “I’ll take that as a no then,” he mutters, before casting around for someone else to try it on with. He refuses to end the school year as sad and lonely as he started it. There have been precious few opportunities to get his end away this year, and this is literally his last chance to do anything about it before going off to uni.

He quickly spots a seventh-year boy he’s noticed around school but never actually spoken more than a few words to, and decides he might as well give it a shot. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do. As he stumbles towards this new opportunity, Ginny catches his eye and makes an amused face at him, before turning back to carry on not-so-subtly flirting with a very flustered Neville, so he flips her off and continues on his way. Bloody fuck. Even Neville is getting more action than him…although to be fair, he’s become unfairly attractive recently. He’s not bitter about Ginny moving on from him—they’d long since agreed that they worked better as friends—but at this rate, he’s is going to be the only single man standing at the party. 

The boy is sat by himself on one of the benches by the bonfire, gazing distantly into the flames. His golden sandy hair has taken on a Weasley-esque tinge in the light from the bonfire and Harry’s fingers itch to tease the loose curls off of his forehead, maybe run his fingers through it, grip it, use it to hold his face in position while he…Merlin, fuck. He needed to get off with someone soon. It was definitely an M-something; Martin, Michael, Matthew…

Matty! “Hey Matty, do you ever look up at the stars—”

“It’s Mark.” Mark rolls his beautifully blue eyes and gets up, strolling away from Harry and the bonfire without even a backwards glance.

“ _’It’s Mark’_ ,” Harry says, affecting a high whiny voice. “Well, fuck you Matty-Mark,” he mutters. 

Harry loves Hogwarts, he really does, but it’s definitely time to move on. 

Feeling disheartened, he wanders away from the party, a Butterbeer topped with vodka dangling from his fingers. He stops beside a sturdy looking tree a short distance from the throng of people and leans back against the gnarled trunk. He can still see the glow of the fire from here, the silhouettes of his cohort moving to and fro past the flames, or huddled in groups on the low benches around it. Sparks fly into the air, glowing a bright orange in the night sky like tiny insects lit from within. He watches his friends enjoying themselves, acting like typical young, carefree teenagers for once now that the stress of exams has been lifted from their shoulders. He sees Hermione dancing with Rom as they twirl each other around with broad grins painted across their faces; Seamus is sitting on Dean’s shoulders and gesticulating wildly at Ginny and Neville who don’t seem to be paying them a blind bit of notice; Luna is deep in conversation with someone Harry thinks might be a seventh-year Slytherin, but honestly, he has no idea. Everyone looks so _happy_ and Harry is torn between sadness at the ending of this period of their lives and excitement to be leaving it all behind. Okay, so a lot of it had been utter shit, but the sense of camaraderie, between the eighth years especially, is the only thing holding him together some days.

The bark feels rough against his back even through his hoodie. He’d worn it because eight years of living in Scotland had taught him to never venture outside without a jacket of some description, but the warming charms around the party area—and the fuck-off huge bonfire—gave the night air a tropical feel and he was starting to regret his decision. 

“That old Potter charm not working for you tonight, eh?” Blaise appears at his elbow as if from nowhere, grinning like a Cheshire cat, his eyes twinkling as they reflect the fairy lights hanging from the branches above their heads.

“Fuck off, you tosser.” Harry laughs and takes a swig of his drink. He thinks he may have been a little over-generous with the vodka top because he struggles not to wince as the liquid burns down his throat.

“Hey, I’m not the one at the mercy of their own hand tonight after striking out not once, but twice. Ouch.”

Harry rolls his eyes. One day he’ll find out how Blaise seems to know everything that goes on even when he’s nowhere to be seen. “Yeah? I’d like to see you do better.” 

“Well, I’d invite you to watch—” Blaise brushes a spec of invisible fluff from his somehow still-immaculate shirt, “—but Elin seems the shy type and I don’t want to scare her away.”

“Who’s Elin?” Harry asks. He wouldn’t put it past Blaise to make up a random girl just to wind him up, but he is also aware of his own shocking inability to remember names.

“Seventh-year Hufflepuff. Friends with Loony.”

“Luna,” he corrects absently. “Is she? How come I’ve never heard of her?”

“I wish I had an answer for you, Harry, mate.” Blaise claps a hand on his shoulder, the force jerking Harry forward. It’s nothing he’s not used to; Blaise has about half a foot on him, and enviably broad shoulders, so even a gentle pat has the potential to send Harry’s much slighter frame careening towards the ground. The hand on his shoulder slides across to Harry’s other side until Blaise’s arm is dangling loosely around his neck. They watch the revelry in an easy silence, the arm anchoring Harry and stopping his thoughts from floating too far away.

“It’s going to be weird leaving all this behind,” Blaise says after a short while, voicing Harry’s own thoughts. Like Harry, Blaise’s post-Hogwarts plans were taking him away from the comfort of the familiar and off to a new country.

“Yeah.” Harry nods and takes another large, burning swig of his drink. 

“Regrets?”

“No?” Harry winces at how unsure his voice sounds. “No,” he restates more firmly. It’s true, he doesn’t have regrets but…but his friends are so important to him, and in choosing to leave, he’s not only running away from the UK, he’s effectively running away from his entire support network. It’s terrifying and there is a strong possibility it could all go horribly wrong, but no, he doesn’t regret his decision.

“I still think you’re an idiot for choosing Brown over UCLA, but whatever. You always did have to be different.” Harry snorts and shakes his head as Blaise elbows him in the ribs. “It’ll be scary, sure, but it’ll also be fucking amazing.” Blaise turns his dazzling smile on him, and Harry experiences a brief flutter of desire. He squashes it down as deep as it’ll go. He’d never go there, though. Not while still relatively sober anyway.

“I wish you were coming to Brown with me,” Harry admitted quietly. Blaise had quickly become one of his best friends while they struggled to adjust to school life after the war. Ron and Hermione had each other, and Harry hadn’t wanted to intrude on their time together so he’d started spending a lot of time wandering the grounds by himself. Blaise was the only Slytherin who’d returned for their eighth year, and even though he and his family had remained steadfastly neutral during the war, he’d been shunned by a lot of people. Harry and Blaise had slowly gravitated towards each other, bonding during long walks through the grounds while arguing about Quidditch, politics, and the sartorial choices of their professors. Harry now considered him to be one of his best friends, and he knew Blaise felt the same way about him. They’d found each other when adrift, and that was a bond that didn't easily get swept away and forgotten about.

“Are you kidding me? Why would I pick Brown when UCLA is on the table? Sunshine, beautiful people, and titties everywhere. I’m going to be in heaven. _Heaven_ , Harry.”

“You do realise we’re supposed to be getting a degree, not chlamydia, right?”

“Oh shush, Potter. You’re just being a sourpuss because I won’t be there to help you get laid. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of action with all the preppy kids at Brown. They’ll lap up your British accent, your roguish good looks, your scruffy little head, your inability to dress yourself in anything remotely stylish... You’ll have to find a new wingman though—which I know is a big ask since I’m basically irreplaceable.”

Harry shoots a glare at Blaise. “Because you’ve done such a good job of helping me get laid here.”

“I’ve done the best I can with the raw materials available.”

“Oh, fuck you, Blaise.” Blaise barks out a laugh as Harry shoves him, and it’s not long before they’re tussling on the ground like a pair of schoolboys. 

He’s really going to miss this, Harry thinks.

* * *

__**To:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com  
 **From:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com

_Hi Blaise,_

_Hope you made it to California okay! I’ve never travelled by international Portkey before… Merlin, was that an experience. I might fork out for airfare when I visit home, take my chances with a metal tube in the sky. Is it possible to get stretched out of shape from too much Portkey travel? I felt like a saggy elastic band for hours after. Yuk._  
It’s weird being so far from home and knowing no one, but I have a good feeling about this. I think this move is definitely one of my better decisions.  
So, how’s campus? How’s your dorm? Do you have a roommate? Rhode Island is great. The campus is really cool, and everyone I’ve met so far has been really nice. My roommate is this guy, Trent, from Virginia. He’s super into sports—watching it mostly, but I think he said something about playing football at high school (Not real football, though. Did you know football isn’t actually football here? I don’t suppose you do since it’s a Muggle thing, but it’s weird.) Anyway, Trent says he’ll drag me to game one day…not sure what sort of game, but I’m going to assume there’s a ball involved somewhere. Apparently, my lack of knowledge of American sports is grossly offensive to him so he’s making it his quest to enlighten me.  
I’m off out tonight to a ‘mixer’ (look at me picking up the lingo so easily) with Trent and some of the people on my floor. Trent’s a bit like you, actually. He seems to make friends with everyone, so I guess he’s a good guy to room with if I want to meet people.  
Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got to go find the campus Floo and Owlery centre and send a couple of letters (Ron still doesn’t have an email address, can you believe it??)  
Let me know how you’re settling in. I want to know everything! 

_Harry x_

~~~

_**To:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com  
**From:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com_

_Harry!_

_Good to hear from you. Sorry it’s taken so long to reply. I wanted to find the time to write a proper response but it’s been mad here, what with all the parties, socials, and the odd lecture._  
California is absolutely fantastic. The girls, the sun, the sea. Would you believe Muggle media actually got it right for once? One of the lecturers even took us on a behind the scenes studio tour. Fucking brilliant. Did you know they do all the special effects in films without magic? It’s just computers and all that rubbish. The mind boggles. If they taught us this stuff in Muggle Studies then I might have actually paid attention for once.  
How much do you know about the Greek system? I thought I’d try my luck rushing a fraternity. One of the guys in my corridor talked me into it, and it sounds like it’ll be a bit of a laugh. Apparently, it’s great for networking opportunities. And parties, of course. Can’t forget that!  
I hope everything is still going well. Please tell me you’re actually getting some action and not just studying the whole time. I guess with Trent there, I don’t have to worry about you having no one to drag you out to bars and talk you up. Please send me a full report of all your hookups so I know you’re doing okay. Just for the record, though, I object to you comparing me to this Trent. Is he as handsome as me? As charming? I doubt it. I hope you told him that the position of best mate is already filled, or do I have to come over and remind you?  
Got to dash— I met some cute local girls who want to take me to a pool party! (Can you believe how mental they go for the accent here??) 

_Much love,  
Blaise_

_P.S. I know what football is, you prat. Both the British and the American kind. I’m a wizard, not a hermit. Don’t confuse me with your idiot ginger ex._

 

~~~

_**To:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com  
**From:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com_

_Blaise,_

_I’m glad to hear you’re having fun, but please remember that we’re here to study not get new and exotic STDs…_  
I wish you wouldn’t call Ron my ex. He’s still my best mate. I have room enough in my heart for the both of you (and Hermione)…and Trent (joking! It’s far too early to know if he’ll be replacing you), so there’s no need to get jealous, okay?  
Of course you’re rushing a fraternity. I couldn’t be arsed myself. Looks like a load of unnecessary hassle, and to be honest, all the frat guys I’ve seen look like right knobs. You’ll fit right in!  
So the course is going well, then? Is it just me, or is there a lot of work?? I can’t believe how much reading I have to do—I’m starting to see what Hermione was always banging on about when she complained about the holes in our education. No one else seems to be stressing so much. Muggles don’t know how easy they have it. Do you think they’d go easy on me if I told them I saved the world from a madman… :):):)  
I have to go. I’ve got about a million pages to read before my lecture tomorrow. I’m calling it now—Professor Tabata is a demon. She also reminds me a lot of your mate Parkinson. Coincidence? If you don’t hear back from me, it’s because Tabata has skinned me alive and snacked on my flesh. 

_Harry x_

_P.S. I’m not going to detail my hookups, you perve. Rest assured that I’m doing fine. I’m not completely useless._

~~~

_**To:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com  
**From:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com_

_Blaise. What the fuck. You will NEVER guess who walked into Tabata’s Principles Of Modern Design class. Draco Malfoy. Draco fucking Malfoy strolls into Tabata’s class this afternoon, calm as you like, dressed in these ridiculously tight jeans and a cardigan. A cardigan! He didn’t just look like a Muggle, but a bloody emo one. And then, THEN, he sits down and pulls out this pencil case and an A4 notepad like it’s the most normal thing in the world. What the actual fuck. Who does he think he is with his floppy fringe and his Muggle stationery???_  
Did you know he was here? If you knew and never told me…I swear to every fucking god I can invoke that I will cut off your cock and bollocks and feed them to you.  
He’s surely up to something, right? Otherwise what the fuck is he doing prancing about my uni, attending my classes? Tabata didn’t even say anything about him missing her first class. He’s probably confunded her. 

_Harry_

~~~

_**To:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com  
**From:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com_

_Draco’s at Brown? I swear to Salazar I had no idea. You know as well as I do that the Malfoys fucked off out of the country after the trials. I haven’t heard a word from Draco since, even though I sent several owls. Have you spoken to him? How’s he doing? Does he look well? Please don’t antagonise him, I don’t want you getting yourself kicked out of college. I know you, Potter. Play nice, okay?_

_So, how’s this semester going? You get your reading done in time? You’re clever enough that I’m sure you’ll catch up to the Muggles in no time. I know what you mean though, it is a little bit of a shock having all this work. I’m actually starting to feel a little nostalgic about those all-nighters we used to pull in the common room. I bet Trent can’t make you a coffee so strong you vibrate out of your seat.  
Pansy will be thrilled to know she can still strike terror into your heart. I’ll be sure to pass it on._

_Don’t forget to keep me updated on your love life. I need to know you’re remembering to look after your dick._

_Blaise x_

_P.S. if you manage to talk to Draco without starting a third Wizarding war, please ask him why the fuck he never replied to me. Make sure you do it nicely, though, yeah?_

~~~

_**To:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com  
**From:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com_

_Blaise,_

_I’m not going to start anything, don’t worry. I’ve tried to say hello after class a few times—you know, like an ordinary person would do, not in an antagonistic way—but he always runs off._  
Why the fuck did he have to be doing the same major as me? Do you have any idea how hard it is to concentrate on the principles of modern design when that git is waving his hand in the air every two seconds to ask some ridiculous question? I swear he only does it to prove he’s done the reading. Bastard. The other day he actually corrected the lecturer, can you believe it? Are you sure you had no idea he was coming here? I know you said he’d buggered off out of the country with his mum but I find it hard to believe no one knew where he was or what he was up to. I thought you snakes were loyal to each other? …unless this is snake loyalty in action and you’ve been keeping it a secret from me this whole time, you bell-end.  
When he ran off after class the other day, I followed him and found out his dorm is only a five-minute walk from mine. That can’t be a coincidence. He’s always in the library too. And I keep seeing him in the cafeteria. 

_Anyway, course is still good, roommate still sport-obsessed, love-life still depressingly uneventful, thanks for asking. There was this girl at a party the other day who seemed nice…until I came back from the loo and found her dry humping some jock on the sofa. And then there was another one who acted super interested until she realised I wasn’t who she thought I was. So, that was nice…_

_Glad you’re living your best life. Thanks for the detailed descriptions of all the sex you’re having…maybe next time just include the highlights. Or, and here’s a novel idea, just keep it to yourself. I really don’t need a book-review style email every time you stick your dick in someone._

_Harry x_

~~~

_**To:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com  
**From:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com_

_Harry, mate. I’m in love. Lacey, oh Lacey. I could compose sonnets about her tits. I won’t send them to you though, since you seem intent on stifling my creativity.  
So anyway, I have a theory. And please don’t jump down my throat. But…perhaps if you stop following Draco around, you might actually have some time to pull someone?? Try it. _

_Oh! You remember that paper I told you about? I only went and got one of the top grades in the class. Fucking amazing._

_Talk later. I’m off to the movies with Jen. Or is it Keeley? I’m sure I’ll remember when I get there._

_Blaise xoxo_

~~~

_**To:** Blazingspeed69@yahoo.com  
**From:** Expecting2fly@hotmail.com_

_Blaise,_

_In news that will surprise absolutely no one, Malfoy is still a massive knob. I was just minding my own business, hanging around outside the library, as you do, and he accused me of stalking him! Me! Stalking him!? Clearly, he has a guilty conscience. I’m still ‘playing nice’ though, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. He’s not making it easy, though. He’s always swanning about the place in his too-tight trousers. Flicking his hair around. He looks like he’s heading to a fashion shoot rather than going to class. Prick._

_I feel like someone should have warned me how hard university would be. How are your grades so good when all you do is party or lounge by a pool? Tabata returned my last paper with_ ‘distinctly average work, Potter,’ _scrawled across the front. Apparently, I need to try harder. How does she know I’m not already trying my hardest? For all she knows, this is me at the top of my game! I clearly peaked at seventeen. Can you guess who got the highest grade in the class? That’s right. Draco fucking Malfoy. UUGGGHHHHHHH. He acts like he’s the dog’s fucking bollocks, but he’s probably only getting the grades because he has no friends and spends his whole time in the library. He was in there for about six hours straight the other day. And he goes on Friday nights too. Who goes to the library on Friday nights??_  
I wish I had something to report on my love life, but it remains depressingly non-existent. I can’t even be arsed to make something up at this point.  
Maybe I made the wrong decision coming here. Hermione and Ron have been pestering me to visit over Christmas…perhaps I won’t come back after.

_H x_

_P.S. For the billionth time, please don’t send me any more pictures of you topless. I get it. The weather in LA is good. You’re an Adonis. Everyone loves you. Also, the links to porn sites you keep sending—_ TO MY UNI ADDRESS _—are unnecessary. I’m capable of finding my own porn, thanks. What if the university is screening my emails???_

* * *

Harry watches as Malfoy pores over a textbook. The sides of his pale blond hair are shorn severely, but a sweeping fringe cuts diagonally across his face and obscures his eyes from Harry’s view. He can tell he’s concentrating hard on the passage he’s reading, though, from the way his mouth moves minutely as he reads. They’ve shared this class for almost two months now, and thanks to Harry’s position two rows behind and one row over, he’s had a lot of time to observe him unnoticed, and all this observation has led him to two very important conclusions: One, Malfoy has grown into his pointy looks; and two, Muggle clothes suit him. Like, _really_ suit him. It’s unfair how good he looks, and that he always manages to be dressed immaculately no matter what the time of day. He clearly has far too much time on his hands. Harry hazards a glance down at the jeans and saggy jumper he’d grabbed from the pile of semi-clean clothes on his floor before leaving his dorm that morning and grimaces when he spots an unidentifiable stain on his trousers. It probably wouldn’t hurt to put in a little more effort with his own appearance.

The last time he’d seen Malfoy before coming to America was at his trial after the war. He’d been painfully thin then, his skin taut across sharp cheekbones, and dark smudges beneath his sunken eyes, and Harry had felt a pang of sympathy for him. But Harry’s life moved on before he could dwell too much on Malfoy’s welfare—trials, funerals, press interference, and the rebuilding of Hogwarts taking up all of his attention—and Malfoy slipped from his thoughts. The Malfoys had buggered off pretty sharpish after their charges had been dismissed and reparations paid—Lucius to Azkaban, Narcissa and Draco to god knows where— so it hadn’t been too difficult to stuff the image of Malfoy’s defeated appearance to the depths of his mind. However, he’d never truly forgotten Malfoy’s defiant, yet tear-streaked face when the verdict was read out, and the curt nod he’d given Harry as their eyes briefly met across the courtroom.

He sits and stares at Malfoy in his Muggle clothes, with his Muggle haircut, studying a Muggle course in a room surrounded by Muggles, and he can’t believe how much he’s changed. He looks completely at ease, sitting there with his perfectly styled head where not even a single hair sits out of place. Harry’s probably spent far too long thinking about Malfoy’s hair cut. He wants to run his fingers over the short hair on the back and sides, drag them against the grain to see if it’s as soft and velvety as it looks…Malfoy probably won’t appreciate that though. That’s the frustrating thing; not that Malfoy won’t let him touch his hair, but that even though he looks so different, even though other people in the class seem to get on with him, even though he’s always surrounded by people who apparently enjoy his company, to Harry, Malfoy is the same arrogant, aloof prick he’s always been. Except now it’s worse, because _now,_ he barely acknowledges Harry’s presence.

Harry is itching to know what he’s been up to for the past year while everyone else worked themselves ragged to scrape through their N.E.W.Ts. He’s desperate to find out how he went from a scrawny, hollowed-out shell, to the healthy, objectively attractive man he now is. Blaise’s words about not treating Malfoy too harshly play through his mind. He has actually tried several times to strike up a conversation with Malfoy, but the git is clearly still clinging to their past rivalry. All of his grunted ‘hellos’ and reluctant overtures of friendship have so far been met with cold glares that don’t exactly invite further interaction, and then there was the incident outside the library where Malfoy accused Harry of stalking him (like it’s Harry’s fault that Malfoy’s routine is so predictable that he’s practically asking to be stalked…not that Harry was stalking) so Harry is close to giving up completely. It’s only his stubbornness at this point that’s stopping him. 

Malfoy scratches a hand through his hair and then leans back, popping the end of his biro into his mouth. His pink lips enclose the cheap plastic and he twists it around as he stares down at the pages of his book. Harry’s stomach does an odd little flip. He suddenly wishes more than anything that he could swap places with the pen. Malfoy’s lips are spit-slicked; dark pink and moist. He slides the pen absently from side to side with long, delicate fingers that clearly have never seen a day of hard graft. Are they as soft as they look, Harry wonders, wetting his own lips with the tip of his tongue…

“Mr Potter.” Professor Tabata’s voice cuts through Harry’s day-dreaming. “Your paper was…not bad. Some might even go as far as to say it was good. You have flair, which is wonderful, but I feel you are lacking in direction. Your presentation is lacklustre, your phrasing is lazy, and honestly, if this was the piece of work I was using to judge your suitability for my class, I might reconsider your acceptance. You have the potential to be great, Mr Potter, if only you can pull your head out of the clouds for long enough to put some effort into your assignments.”

Harry feels his cheeks flood with heat and he just about manages to prevent himself from snatching the offending paper out of Professor Tabata’s hands and incinerating it with a swift wandless _Incendio_. He glances at Malfoy and can practically feel the smugness oozing from his slender shoulders. Of all the people to witness the public tearing apart of his paper, why did it have to be him? He fights down the urge to fling a fine liner at Malfoy’s perfectly gradated hair. It’s his fault Harry’s marks are suffering in the first place. How’s he supposed to concentrate on the lectures when he’s knackered from having to follow Malfoy around (to check he’s not up to no good) and then he has to suffer through Malfoy sitting there in class with his perfect lips and his flawless skin and Muggle clothes?

He is dimly aware of Tabata’s voice droning on in the background, a distracting buzzing in his ears as he thinks of all the ways Malfoy has ruined his life so far. It’s unfair that Malfoy seems to be coping so well with semi-Muggle life. Brown has strong links to the Magical community, but the majority of witches and wizards who study here are enrolled on purely Muggle courses. Harry had found it a little hard to adjust at first, but after the initial week of feeling clumsy and out of place, he quickly got used to doing things the Muggle way again. Malfoy is a pure-blood though—how has he adapted so easily? 

He tunes back into the class when he hears Tabata call Malfoy’s name and he prays she’ll rip into his paper as much as she did with his own. He doubts it’ll actually happen though, not to her golden boy who always does the reading and always contributes to class and always has an answer for everything.

“…your attention to detail is fantastic. You clearly know the material inside and out, and I’m excited to see what you’ll achieve in the future.” Harry hunches his shoulders and glares at his paper, heart sinking as Malfoy preens, basking in the praise. The depressing thing is that he had actually tried to produce something halfway decent, but as usual, he’d left it to the last minute because there were so many other things to divert his attention—like emailing Blaise, playing sports with his roommate, tailing Malfoy, going out on the pull. “But,” Tabata continues, “your writing style is…how do I say this… _boring_ , for lack of a better word. I want your ideas to leap off the page and smack me about my head, but instead, it’s more like reading an instruction manual. All the elements are there, Mr Malfoy, but there’s no zing, no oomph.” Tabata strolls between the desks and drops Malfoy’s paper in front of him. “What I’m trying to say is that it’s dry, Mr Malfoy, and I don’t want _dry_. I want to be inspired! Perhaps you and Mr Potter need to compare notes. Between the two of you, I think I might have a perfect student!” She laughs at her joke, and several of his classmates titter along, casting amused glances at the pair of them. 

Harry groans and lets his head drop forward onto his folded arms. He’d been starting to enjoy Tabata’s comments until her closing remark. 

There are two more students left to have their work returned—neither receiving the dressing down Harry’s and Malfoy’s work got—and then Tabata dismisses the class. Harry risks a look at Malfoy, thinking perhaps they can commiserate together, but Malfoy only glares at him before he swans out of the class with a couple of other students. _Fucking Malfoy._ Harry stuffs his work into his bag and stomps back to his room.

* * *

The temperature had taken quite a dip over the last week, but the afternoon remains sunny and dry, leaves starting to gather in crunchy, russet heaps at the edges of footpaths and around buildings. Autumn is always bittersweet for Harry. He loves how the trees come alive with colour as their leaves die, but all the pumpkins and ghouls and witches decorating every building are a constant reminder that Halloween is just around the corner. The clement weather has been helpful in soothing his dour mood, though, much more than the wet, miserable gloom of Britain ever has. A couple of weeks ago, he’d made the decision not to travel to Godric’s Hollow as he had originally planned to do and guilt had been gnawing at his insides ever since. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to disrupt his studies, but he couldn’t deny that a large part of his decision to stay in the US was because he didn’t feel strong enough to face people back home. As much as he was lonely (and horny) here, it was preferable to being hounded by the press, the public and concerned friends at every turn. But as the 31st approached, the guilty feelings intensified and he really wished he didn’t have to be confronted with them at every turn. Halloween was apparently a _Big Deal_ here, though, and it was hard to avoid.

Trent, his roommate, had dragged him outside to play Frisbee a couple of hours ago with a bunch of other random jock types. Harry recognises a few of them from parties and lectures, but he doesn’t really know them well. It’s good to get away from his desk for a while, though. Professor Tabata’s words had refused to leave him so he’d actually been making a concerted effort to study harder. He doesn’t want to give her another opportunity to call him out in front of everyone, and if she happens to praise him within range of Malfoy? Well, he’s hardly going to complain about that. 

He’s taking a quick breather from the game while a few of the guys are trying to knock the Frisbee out of a tree when Trent jogs up to him.

“Hey, isn’t that the dude you keep talking about?” he says, slinging a sweaty arm around Harry’s shoulders and pointing over to the other side of the quad.

“Who?” Harry looks away from where Blake is now shimmying up a tree trunk and immediately spots Malfoy strolling along the footpath with a girl Harry hasn’t seen before. “Oh…” What’s he doing in this part of campus? And who is that girl? She’s not one of his usual hangers-on. In fact, he specifically remembers telling Trent just last night that he thought Malfoy was dating that brunette he’s always with, and— “Wait— I don’t talk about him.”

“Yeah, you do. Constantly.” He claps Harry on the back and clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is high and whiny. “ _’Malfoy looked at me funny!’, ‘Malfoy didn’t look at me at all!’, ‘Why won’t Malfoy talk to me?’_ and so on. You get the general idea.”

“Hey! I don’t sound like that! …do I?” Harry frantically searches his mind for every time he’s brought up Malfoy with Trent, and he comes to the worrying realisation that his roommate might have a point. Thank fuck Ron and Hermione aren’t around to hear it.

Trent doesn’t seem put off by Harry’s obvious alarm. “What’s the deal with you two anyway? Is he your ex or something?”

Harry chokes on the mouthful of water he’s just swigged. “What? No! Fuck. Definitely not.” He giggles a little hysterically at the thought of him and Malfoy back at Hogwarts, skipping through the corridors hand in hand, sneaking off to abandoned classrooms or hidden alcoves for a cheeky snog or a swift handjob… No. Just… no. Ron would have thrown a fit. The entire wizarding world would have thrown a fit. Harry Potter getting cosy with a Death Eater… He can practically feel the waves of horror rolling off the Daily Prophet readers if that had ever happened. Besides, Malfoy was a miserable, pointy-faced twat back at school. Maybe if he’d looked a little more like he does now… “Jesus, fuck, no, Trent. If you had any idea…” Harry shakes his head, unable to find the words to describe the ridiculousness of his question. 

“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re not spurned lovers. Jeez,” Trent manages to say through the laughter. “So, are you gonna make me guess or what?”

“There’s no great mystery,” Harry says, still tracking Malfoy’s progress. “We went to boarding school together back in the UK, and he was a massive prick…I thought that maybe we could move on from our past… _issues_ , but it seems he’s still a massive prick, so…” Harry shrugs, and Trent nods his head. There’s a glint in his eye that Harry doesn’t quite trust, though.

They stand together in companionable silence for a few moments, watching the ongoing struggles with the Frisbee in the tree, although Harry’s gaze keeps returning to watch Malfoy’s progress around the quad. His pace is relaxed, his face open as he laughs at something his companion says. It’s odd to see him so far from the library.

“You know, with guys like that,” Trent wafts a hand at Malfoy. “What they want is to feel superior, yeah? So if you’re so dead set on being in his life, or whatever, just, I don’t know, ask him for help with your next essay. I mean, obviously you know him better than I do, but he seems like the kind of guy who likes being right.”

Harry frowns, but he can’t argue with Trent’s uncannily accurate grasp of Malfoy’s character. “What makes you think I want to be in his life?” Malfoy looks like he’s heading into the pool and Harry feels momentarily wrong-footed. He’d never considered that Malfoy might enjoy being wet. Swimming. Whatever. Was it something he did regularly? He suddenly has visions of Malfoy doing laps of the Great Lake at Hogwarts in nothing but a pair of Slytherin-green Speedos and stifles a laugh. 

“In my experience, you don’t stare at someone so intensely if you don’t want anything to do with them. You want my advice?” He raises an athletic eyebrow, crinkling his tanned skin, and nudges Harry’s elbow. “You need to either fuck him or fight him. Get it out of your system.”

 _“Fuck him?”_ Harry splutters. He can clearly picture Malfoy’s look of abject horror if he was ever to make a move on him… Merlin. Sure, he might have thought about him a bit lately, but he was never going to actually _do_ anything. The only reason his thoughts have even drifted anywhere near that kind of thing recently is because he’s so desperate for something other than his hand to get him off that even Malfoy has begun looking like a viable option. A man can only survive on polishing his own wand for so long. 

“Yeah, or fight him.” There’s a raucous cheer as the Frisbee is finally dislodged from its leafy prison. “Come on, dude. Game’s on again,” Trent says, with a parting back-slap.

Harry grunts his acknowledgement, but doesn’t follow him. He can’t stop thinking about Trent’s words. He doesn’t think he wants to be friends with Malfoy, but there is something vaguely comforting about the idea of having at least one person from home he can talk to—even if that person is Draco Malfoy. And it would be nice if they could be civil, especially since they’re going to be in the same classes for the rest of the year. He is also still intensely curious about what had brought Malfoy here. Where had he and his mother gone? Why is he apparently so comfortable around Muggles? How had he got so fit? Where did he get his hair cut? 

Those questions (and more) started to circle in Harry’s mind, making it hard to concentrate on anything. It was obviously in the best interests of both his grades and his sanity if he and Malfoy could strike up a truce. As much as he hates to admit it, he thinks Trent might be onto something. Not about the fighting or fucking thing—that’s bloody ridiculous—but asking for Malfoy’s help with his paper could be the perfect ice-breaker. Since when has Malfoy missed an opportunity to lord something over him?

He glances over his shoulder in time to see Malfoy disappearing into the pool building. “You go get started without me,” he shouts after Trent, and before he can think further on what he’s actually doing, he’s running in the opposite direction from the Frisbee game, across the quad.

“Malfoy! Hey! Wait a minute!” Harry skids to a halt inside the lobby of the sports centre and sucks in a few heaving breaths. He’s not unfit, but two hours of Frisbee followed by a sprint across the quad is enough to make him regret the diet of burgers and fries he’s living on at the moment.

“What is it, Potter?” Malfoy snarls. He’s alone now, thankfully. Harry’s glad he won’t have an audience while he makes a tit of himself. What the hell was he thinking, chasing after Malfoy like a schoolboy with a crush? “Well? Spit it out, or collapse on the floor for all I care. Some of us have better things to do than expire on the welcome mat.”

“Yeah. Um…hold on. I just wanted to ask you something… About class... The papers we got back,” he manages to wheeze out in between breaths. Fuck. It was time to start limiting his fast food intake and do a little more exercise than the occasional game of Frisbee with Trent.

Malfoy’s brows twitch upward in interest, but before he can answer a girl comes up beside him and touches his forearm. “Draco, we’re heading in. You coming?” It’s the girl Malfoy was walking with before. Harry doesn’t scowl at the interruption, or the unnecessarily flirtatious touching, but it’s a close-run thing.

“I don’t have time for this right now, Potter. Come and find me later if you’re that desperate to talk about your academic failings.” He turns on his heel and the girl links her arm in his as they walk towards the changing rooms. 

“Who’s that?” Harry hears the girl ask.

“No one of consequence. Just someone I used to know back home.” 

Harry winces at Malfoy’s dismissive response and tries to ignore the sting of his words. It really shouldn’t hurt—he and Malfoy are nothing to each other any more. Not even sworn enemies. They’re just two lads from England who happen to share a bit of history that neither is particularly proud of (hopefully). It shouldn’t bother him that, for whatever reason, Malfoy wants to maintain their old hostility, but it’s intensely annoying that Malfoy can’t just be a bloody grownup about it. Why is he doing his best to pretend Harry doesn’t exist? Harry paces the entrance lobby for a few minutes, planning what he wants to do next. Sensibly, he knows he should go back to the Frisbee game and blow off some steam with a little competitive mucking around, or perhaps go back to his dorm and start work on the million and one assignments he has to finish. But realistically, he knows he’s not going anywhere; not until he’s got some sort of response from Malfoy. A _proper_ response, not a dismissive _’fuck off and stop bothering me’_ response. This means he can either pace the entrance lobby until Malfoy leaves so he can accost him, or follow him into the pool.

Mind made up, Harry waits until the bored looking receptionist is distracted by a large group of students turning up at the same time—the varsity rowing team judging by their jackets—and then sneaks through the barriers. He hopes to Merlin they don’t notice and send security to kick him out. That would be far more embarrassing than almost collapsing on the welcome mat. He stalks through the changing room and out to the poolside. A few people glare at his scuffed up converse, but thankfully, no one kicks him out. 

The pool is quiet, with only a few people swimming laps, their heads bobbing up and down in the water, so Harry sits in the front row of the empty spectator stands and scans the surface, searching for a familiar white-blond head of hair, possibly darkened by the water. When someone wearing a sky blue swimming cap and purple-rimmed goggles pulls himself out of the water just in front of him, Harry temporarily abandons his search to have a bit of an ogle at the wet, beautifully-toned chest, and it’s only when he finally drags his eyes up that he registers that the lithe, shining body is that of the person he’s looking for.

Malfoy stands before him at the edge of the pool, his hands on his hips, and somehow his glare manages to be fierce even through the ridiculous swim goggles. Thin rivulets of water trail down his body, dripping from the blond hair peeking out from beneath the swim cap. Harry stares, transfixed as a droplet falls from Malfoy’s sharp jawline and slowly rolls down the contours of his chest. He has no idea what the git has been up to in the past year, but whatever it was, it has done his body the world of good. He’s still a pale, lanky bastard, but he’s filled out since the trials, and Harry longs to trace his fingers along the path of that lucky droplet of water, down, down into the waistband of the shortest, tightest black swimming trunks he has ever laid eyes on… Maybe Trent was right.

A shiver passes through Malfoy’s body, and the bright lights of the pool suddenly catch upon the faint silvery lines of scars that cut diagonally across his chest. For a split second, Harry is angry at whoever had marred the previously flawless skin, but then it hits him like a bucket of ice water over his head. Shame wells up inside him and bile burns in his throat, and he shifts his gaze to the floor, scowling at the tiles as if they’d personally offended him.

Malfoy stiffens and clears his throat, and Harry whips his eyes up to meet with a cool grey stare. He’s pulled up the goggles so they rest on his forehead, and there are red indentations around his eyes where the rubber has pressed into his face. Harry feels his skin heat under the intense scrutiny, but he refuses to look away. He wishes he could remember what the fuck he was doing at the edge of a pool with a practically naked Malfoy, though.

“Well, Potter,” Malfoy sneers. “What possible reason could you have for following me in here? Do you really have nothing better to do than stalk me?”

Harry pushes off from the bench, spluttering in his embarrassment at being caught staring at Malfoy’s naked chest. “I’m not stalking you! You fucked off halfway through our conversation!”

“So sorry. I must have taken leave of my senses and temporarily forgotten that the entire world revolves around you. How foolish of me to not immediately cancel all of my plans because the great Harry Potter has deigned to speak to me.”

“Oh, fuck off, Malfoy.”

“Are you forgetting that _you_ followed _me_ in here? You fuck off.” Malfoy scowls and turns back to the pool. 

“Fuck. Wait. Malfoy, I need your help.” He reaches out to grab Malfoy’s arm but pulls himself up short at Malfoy’s stern glare. 

“You want _my_ help?” Malfoy drags his eyes down the length of Harry’s body before snapping up to meet Harry’s gaze.

“Um, yeah?” At Malfoy’s unimpressed look, Harry scrabbles around for something to say that won’t send him running straight for the pool. He hears Trent’s voice in his head telling him to ask for help and decides to go for it. “You remember the other day, in Tabata’s class?” Harry starts.

Draco levels him with a glare, one eyebrow cocked. He folds his arms across his chest and nods once, sharply, in acknowledgement.

Harry swallows his unease—asking for help from Draco Malfoy? What was he thinking—and blunders on. “She said some stuff about my work, about how I’m lazy or something, and then when she gave feedback on your assignment, she said how together we’d be pretty decent…”

“Go on.”

“Well, it got me thinking. Maybe you could help me? I mean, I’m not sure I can even pass this class with the way I’m headed right now. I tried really hard with that last paper, and it was still barely average and I know we don’t exactly get on—” Malfoy snorts, but the corners of his lips twitch like he’s suppressing amusement “—but…I was thinking, maybe you could help me?” 

Malfoy stares at him for what feels like a good minute before speaking and Harry feels inordinately proud that he doesn’t look away or even blink. “Fine,” he says with a huff. “Come to my room—floor three, room seven. I’ll presume you know the building already since I’ve seen you lurking outside—at seven pm sharp, Friday, and I can see if there are any redeeming features to your work.”

“Great!” Harry feels like he’s passed some sort of test and his stomach erupts in an excited flurry of butterflies. He’s not sure where the excitement comes from; all he’s done is arrange a study date with his old school rival—homework on a Friday night when he could be out on the pull or getting pissed with his mates. What was he thinking? At least Blaise will be happy with him, Harry muses as Malfoy rolls his eyes and stalks back to the pool.

* * *

Everyone is already in high spirits as Harry heads across campus towards Malfoy’s dorm on Friday evening, no doubt off to parties or bars, or just making the most of the last dregs of autumnal sunshine and hanging around outside. Malfoy’s building is on the main campus, only a five-minute walk from his own, on a quiet tree-lined street, and the short walk is pleasant enough. He says hi to the few people he recognises, turns down some invites to different club nights when flyers are shoved into his hands, and dodges a couple of footballs as he crosses the quad. Part of him wants to abandon the whole idea. He has no idea what he was thinking, asking for Malfoy’s help. It’s been looming over him all week, ever since accosting Malfoy at the swimming pool, and he’s barely been able to concentrate on anything else. Now that the dreaded thing is finally upon him, he’s so jittery that all he wants to do is head to the nearest bar and drown himself in cheap alcohol until he can block the past week from his mind.

Something urges him onwards, though. And it’s not the memory of Malfoy in tight, clingy Speedos.

There’s no response when he knocks on Malfoy’s door and Harry panics that he’s got the wrong time, or the wrong door, or even that he’d misunderstood Malfoy completely and he’d actually never intended for Harry to turn up. Rather than give up though, he knocks again—harder—and this time he hears a muffled ‘Come in!’ through the door in Draco’s unmistakable plummy accent. 

He pauses before opening the door, even with the clear invitation it feels a little odd to just walk into Malfoy’s room. What if he’s forgotten about Harry coming over and only said ‘come in’ because he thought it was a friend? But, he wouldn’t be a Gryffindor if he didn’t blunder in before thinking too deeply about consequences, so he takes a breath and pushes the door open, fully prepared to dodge a hex once Malfoy catches sight of who it is he’s invited into his room.

He’s definitely not prepared for finding Malfoy sat at the desk in the corner of his room with a phone pressed to his ear. He beckons Harry into the room and then turns around, putting his back to the room. Frowning, Harry eases the door closed and takes the opportunity to have a nose around since Malfoy isn’t paying him a blind bit of notice. It’s smaller than his own room, but not by much considering its a single. The furniture is similar—the same plain, university-issue bed, desk, wardrobe, chest of drawers, and bedside table—but the space has a completely different feel. The walls of Harry and Trent’s room are already covered with posters; every surface strewn with books, food containers, empty bottles; clothes are kicked to the edges of the floor or draped over the back of the chairs. It’s clearly a lived-in space. Malfoy’s room, on the other hand, is unnaturally tidy. The bookshelves above the desk are actually filled with books—neatly stacked—rather than boxes of ramen and an assortment of snacks, and there are no clothes on the floor. A jacket is slung across the end of the bed, but it looks artful rather than abandoned. On the bedside table, there are a few paperbacks, all with well-worn spines, and Harry scans the titles to see if he can get a read on Malfoy’s book preferences. He doesn’t recognise any of them, though. There are no posters, no piles of unwashed laundry. Nothing but the few dogeared paperbacks and a half-drunk glass of water that makes the room look even remotely ‘lived-in’. Has Malfoy left his personality back in the UK? 

Harry’s been trying to ignore the quiet, one-sided conversation as Malfoy continues to chat to someone on the phone, but there is nothing of interest to distract him in the room, so he perches on the edge of the bed and gives up all pretence of not listening.

“Yes, yes, of course I miss you, but we’ll see each other soon when I come to visit you at Christmas… I know, it’s not soon enough… I love you too.” Harry’s eyes widen. It sounds like Malfoy is on the phone to a girlfriend, but who’d be stupid enough to date him? And how has he found someone when Harry has had trouble finding anyone to even look at him twice? It must be one of the Slytherin girls. Parkinson, maybe. Malfoy always seemed to have a thing with her at school. Or perhaps the Greengrass girl? 

Harry shakes his head. No, he doesn’t care. It’s none of his business who Malfoy is boffing. 

“Chad!” Draco gasps then slaps a hand over his mouth to smother a giggle before tossing a look over his shoulder. When he meets Harry’s shocked gaze, his face flushes and hunches over his desk, his voice dropping to a whisper. Harry is too shocked by the revelation that not only does Malfoy apparently have a _boy_ friend, but that he has a boyfriend called ‘Chad’. It doesn’t sound much like a British pure-blood name. Could he be a Muggle? Or an American? And how was it possible that Draco ‘I hate Muggles’ Malfoy was able to get a boyfriend before him? Harry wonders whether he should let Malfoy know that he also likes dick. It would certainly be one way to break the awkward tension between them. ‘Hey, I couldn’t help overhearing your private conversation, but guess what, I enjoy cock too!’ Yeah. That’s unlikely to go down very well. Malfoy will probably kick him in the nuts. He grabs a paperback from the pile on the bedside table and absently flicks through it so he can at least look busy if Malfoy turns around again.

“You can’t say those things, Chad,” Malfoy hisses, his ears turning deep pink. “Look, I have to go. I promised someone from my course that I’d help them with their assignment… I know… Thick as two short planks… Love you too. Speak soon, bye.”

Hearing Malfoy describe him as just ‘someone from my course’ sits oddly with Harry. It’s the second time he’s heard Malfoy talk so dismissively about him, as if he’s just some random person he used to know, and it causes his chest to tighten uncomfortably. How can he mean so little to him? After everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve done to each other throughout the years. Had it not affected Malfoy as much as him? Although… he supposes he can understand why Malfoy might choose to gloss over his past with someone new; that’s sort of why Harry came to Brown—to get on with his life without his past dragging him down. Is he just angry that Malfoy seems to be able to move on so much more easily than him? 

No. It really shouldn’t matter whether or not Malfoy has mentioned him to his boyfriend, nor that he has a boyfriend at all. They’ve both chosen to start afresh in a new country, and he should respect that Malfoy might not want anything to do with him. But… It can’t mean nothing that they’re both here by chance, together. Or is that all it is; chance? Harry rolls his eyes at himself. He hates feeling so conflicted, so simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by the same person.

“I thought we could go to the library,” Draco says over his shoulder as he gathers up some things from his desk and stuffs them into a brown leather messenger bag.

“Oh. Okay, sure.” Harry stands and slings his own bag over his shoulder. For some reason, he feels disappointed that they won’t be staying in Malfoy’s room all evening, but he supposes it’s for the best. Malfoy’s less likely to start yelling at him if they’re in a library. Hopefully. 

As they walk side by side across campus in a horribly strained silence, Harry can’t help but wonder how much Chad really knows about Malfoy. Would he still be with him if he knew about Malfoy’s history? The set of Malfoy’s face doesn’t exactly invite conversation though, so Harry keeps his mouth shut and avoids asking any probing, personal questions.

* * *

The library is deathly quiet. It feels like they’re the only idiots studying on a Friday night; if he closes his eyes he can almost hear the sounds of every single other student having fun, can practically taste the cool bitterness of his favourite IPA sliding down his throat. It feels like they’ve been at it for hours, but it can’t have been more than one. He tips back on his chair to see whether he can find the perfect angle to balance on two legs, but after a few minutes of wobbling, Malfoy glares at him so he makes an attempt to focus again. It’s not long before his attention is wandering once more though, and he starts standing all the pens on their ends, until Malfoy snatches them from him with an exasperated huff and slams them down out of reach on the other side of the desk.

It’s not his fault he’s so bored. He’s made several abortive attempts to strike up a conversation with Malfoy since they sat down, but each time, Malfoy either deflects back to the assignment or outright ignores him. It’s endlessly frustrating. So he resorts to watching Malfoy’s profile as he pores over Harry’s work. He’s still the same Malfoy—same angles and hardness and sharp edges—but there is, overall, something softer about him now. He’s clearly irritated by Harry, but he’s not snapping at him (yet) or making any personal attacks, and even though he’s spent much of the time so far snarling out derisive comments or scoffing at something Harry’s written, he’s also offered quite a few helpful suggestions. Every so often, his face lights up and he pulls the end of the biro out of his mouth with a wet pop and scribbles in the margins. It almost seems like he’s enjoying himself, and as that realisation dawns on Harry, he feels something twisting and turning in his chest, because despite being bored by the library, he’s not actually hating Malfoy’s presence at his side. 

“Would you _please_ just sit still!” Malfoy spits, snatching the ruler Harry had been balancing on his nose and pushing him forward so all four chair legs are firmly on the ground.

Harry groans and flops forward onto the desk. “Come oooon, it’s Friday. Literally every single student on campus is off doing something fun and we’re here working. Can’t we do something else?” He tilts his head to the side in time to catch the tail end of an eye roll on Malfoy’s face. It’s nice to know he can still wind him up, even if it seems to take a little longer these days.

“May I remind you that this was _your_ idea,” Malfoy snaps. “If you think you can do so much better without my help then fuck you. You’re on your own.” The chair screeches across the hardwood floor in his haste to get up, and someone a few desks over shushes them.

“Wait, Malfoy,” Harry hisses. “I didn’t mean it like that. I want your help—honestly!—but we’ve been at this for hours now. Don’t we deserve a break?”

“It’s hardly been hours, Potter. In fact, it’s only been—” he holds his arm out in front of him and pulls up his sleeve enough to reveal a rather ordinary looking watch, “—one hour and twenty-three minutes.”

Harry scoffs. He’s had enough of fake-studying with Malfoy and he needs to get up and do something else before he goes mad. The glimpse of Malfoy’s inexpensive Muggle watch was all the encouragement he needed to test the limits of their uncomfortable truce. The Malfoy he used to know would have worn something dripping with gold and encrusted with precious gems, if he’d even lowered himself to wearing a Muggle timepiece in the first place. This Malfoy seems different, more receptive to new ideas and spur of the moment changes in plans. “Come on, you pedantic twat. I want to show you something.” He stuffs his books into his bag and heads towards the fire escape at the back of the room.

“What are you— No! Potter! Are you insane?” Malfoy hisses, but Harry’s pleased to see he follows him anyway. 

“Five minutes, tops. It’ll be worth it, I promise you.” He’s unsure where this sudden burst of spontaneity has come from, but he’s never dealt with boredom well. And perhaps there’s a tiny part of him that wants to do something with Malfoy he won’t quickly forget. He doesn’t want to be ‘Potter’ or ‘someone from class’, he wants to be ‘Harry’ and to do that, he has to get Malfoy to see him as a person and not just as some painful reminder of his past to be glossed over.

* * *

The roof of the library is eerily quiet, the sounds from the city muffled even though they’re not particularly high up. It’s probably an illusion created by the darkness and solitude. Harry’s only been here a few times—one of Trent’s friends sneaks onto the roof to smoke pot and showed him how to get up here a little while back—but he’s never been here at night. It’s a completely different experience. The sky is beautifully clear, the moon bright enough to cast ghostly shadows on the concrete, and it feels like they’re the only two people around for miles.

Malfoy is leaning with his forearms on the solid wall that edges the roof, scanning the city below and the vista beyond. He’s relaxed somewhat since his initial outrage when he’d been convinced that Harry was going to get him expelled, and now he looks younger, happier, with all the scorn and irritation smoothed off his face. He also looks breathtaking in the moonlight and Harry finds it hard to tear his eyes away. He listens as Malfoy points out various buildings and describes a little about the history of each one. It’s fascinating, and he can’t believe he’s never noticed how Hermione-like he is with the way he has so many facts on tap, ready to be whipped out at a moments notice. He’s not sure if Malfoy even knows he’s still there.

Harry doesn’t have much to offer in the way of conversation, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind talking enough for the two of them. Harry leans beside him on the concrete wall, head pillowed on his folded arms and just watches Malfoy talking; watches the way his eyes glitter as they reflect the lights from the city below; the way he gestures with his hands, constantly moving them as he describes things; the way his lips quirk up at the corners like he’s truly happy to be here. Harry thinks he could listen to him speak for hours; how had he not noticed before how passionate he is? Was this a recent development? Of course, he peppers his descriptions with digs at Harry—and Harry wouldn’t want it any other way—but he also laces his words with self-deprecating comments and asides which give Harry the strangest urge to comfort him. He doesn’t, though. 

Slowly, the conversation-slash-lecture peters out and they stand in silence for a few minutes. It’s not awkward, not really, but Harry finds himself racking his brains for something to fill it. He’s struggling to think of anything beyond Malfoy’s boyfriend though.

“So. Chad…?” Harry starts, watching Malfoy’s face closely for any sign of explosion.

Malfoy huffs and rolls his eyes, but his lips tighten like he’s trying to suppress a smirk. “I knew it was a lot to expect you weren’t eavesdropping on my private conversation.”

“Sorry, I’m just… surprised? I guess? You don’t… uh… seem the sort to go out with a Chad.”

“Why?” He narrows his eyes and straightens up, suddenly looking wary.

Harry shrugs. He knows with absolute certainty that whatever he says now will be wrong, so he does his best to control the damage. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” He turns back to the beautiful view spread out before them and hopes that Malfoy will let the awkwardness pass, maybe start lecturing about the constellations or something. But…

“No, go on. You clearly have something on your mind. Why not share it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and the sudden coolness in his voice trickles down Harry’s spine like ice water.

“I… I didn’t realise you were gay,” he says because in his head it sounds like a better option than some of the other things running through his mind, but now he’s spoken the words out loud and can see the cold fire burning in Malfoy’s eyes, he’s not so sure. 

“Does that matter to you?” Malfoy steps into his space and glares at him, making full use of the two inches he has over Harry. “If you’re going to give me shit for being gay, you can throw yourself off this roof right now. I’ve no time for bigots and homophobes.”

“What? I’m not a— How can you even—” Harry bristles. He needs to get things back to how they were before his curiosity about Chad took over, but it pisses him off how sensitive Malfoy’s being all of a sudden. Surely it’s reasonable to expect someone to talk about a boyfriend or girlfriend? That’s just shit friends talk about. And now all of a sudden he’s homophobic? He hates people assuming things about him. 

“You think just because you’re Harry Fucking Potter, you can say whatever the fuck you like. Well, I’m not standing for it. You can take your bigotry and shove it up your—”

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy.” He growls with frustration, dragging his hands through his hair. “What’s wrong with you? I’m not homophobic, you prat.” He briefly considers dropping in the bisexual thing to shut Malfoy up—he’s honestly surprised that he doesn’t know about it since it was all over the _Prophet_ that time he’d been caught snogging Justin outside the Three Broomsticks and he’s not exactly been keeping it hidden here—but he doesn’t want to use his sexuality to one-up Malfoy or shut him up. Malfoy shouldn’t just assume he’s straight. 

“Well, you certainly act like it,” Malfoy huffs and glares into the distance. 

Harry fights the urge to roll his eyes. He knows he should leave things alone, let the conversation tail off, make his excuses and go to bed however awkward or tense things are right now, but he can’t help asking just one more question. “Does he know what you were?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Does _Chad_ have any idea what you and your friends used to do? To Muggles, to half-bloods?”

Malfoy’s entire body stiffens. “They were never my friends,” he snaps, whipping his head round face Harry. His face has drained of colour except for a blotchy red on his cheeks and his wand hand flexes at his side. Harry’s not sure what he’ll do if Malfoy tries to hex him, but part of him wants him to try. He has no idea how things escalated so quickly, but he feels alive for the first time in ages. He wants to grab hold of Malfoy’s stupid preppy jumper and push him back against the wall. He wants to hurt him; make him feel some of the pain he’s been carrying around inside of him thanks to Malfoy’s Death Eater friends…

But Malfoy was never like the other Death Eaters. Harry knows this; he saw it. Malfoy was just a boy like him caught in the middle of someone else’s mess. And he can see it now in the way his eyes shimmer, the way he’s breathing heavily. He’s come here to escape the judgement of others, just as Harry has. They’re a pair of lost boys together. 

He takes a breath. Takes a few steps back. Turns his back on Malfoy and runs shaky fingers through his hair. Another few breaths. “I’m sorry…I—” He turns back to face Malfoy again. He’s staring over the edge of the roof, his clenched fists resting on the wall.

“I was there, you know,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper. “On the Astronomy tower.” The only sign that Malfoy heard him is the narrowing of his eyes, the minuscule twitch of the muscle in his forearm as his fist flexes. “I know you never wanted to kill him in the end. I saw you lower your wand.”

“What?!” Malfoy growls, low and menacing. His hair whips about his head in a sudden gust of wind as he rounds on Harry, making him look ever so slightly deranged and Harry stumbles back a step. The air crackles with the promise of danger and all of Harry’s instincts scream at him to retreat. He knows he’s massively balls’d up this thing that had been developing between them and there’s no saving it. “Did you even want my help?” Malfoy snarls, stalking forward and prodding Harry in the chest. “Or was this nothing more than an excuse to corner me, harass me about my personal life, and dredge up the worst moments from my past? Well, fuck you, Potter. Some of us are trying to move on with our lives. If you ever come near me again, I’ll make you wish the Dark Lord had done the job properly and finished you off when he had the chance.”

Malfoy shoulders past him, sending him staggering back into one of the large air-conditioning units, a dull, metallic clang ringing out in the quiet. “Yeah? Well fuck you too!” he shouts back uselessly. He kicks the ugly metal box hard enough to leave a dent, a permanent testament to his frustration, and screams his rage into the night until he has to stop to suck in heaving a breath. 

No one, not a single fucking person, can wind him up as quickly and effectively as Malfoy, and that thought is almost as frustrating as the pointless argument they’d just had.

* * *

Harry tosses a balled up pair of socks into the air above his face and catches it with the opposite hand, repeating the action over and over. Finals are fast approaching, so he should probably be studying, but the thing with Malfoy has left him feeling wrung out, despondent. Pissed off.

It’s been a week and the swirling mass of conflicting feelings won’t give him a moment’s peace. They’ve settled over him like a thick soupy fog, sucking the enjoyment out of every interaction, every mundane task, colouring everything he does with dull irritation. He couldn’t even be arsed to join in with the impromptu game of street hockey Trent had organised and tried to drag him along to, choosing instead to lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling, tossing socks because none of Trent’s baseballs are within reach. He wants to apologise to Malfoy, but he also wants to smack him in the face, and until he works out what it is he’s going to do, he thinks it’s best to maintain a safe distance. He’s even skipped Tabata’s class this week because the thought of spending an hour staring at the back of Malfoy’s head leaves him feeling nauseous.

Blaise’s latest email is still open on his computer. It’s an invitation to spend Christmas break with him in California. It’s something he’s pestered Harry about in the last few emails, but Harry’s been putting off making a decision. He’s added an extra enticement now, though, and it’s hard to ignore; a ‘Sure Thing’. Someone who—according to Blaise—is fit, smart, and totally gagging for Harry’s cock. And who will be waiting for him at a party which is conveniently a few days after Harry’s last exam. Harry isn’t quite sure he believes him but he can’t deny he’s intrigued. He trusts Blaise enough to know he wouldn’t set him up with someone too…unsuitable, but the thought of heading all the way across the country for a shag doesn’t sit quite right with him. Is he really that desperate? He looks down at his groin and decides that yes, actually, his dick would likely be very amenable to the idea if it could talk. But. He _had_ been planning on spending the break in England with Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, Andromeda and Teddy, and they’ll probably be disappointed if he cancels on them…

He tosses the balled up socks a few more times as he mulls things over. Head to California for a _Sure Thing_ and get the chance to forget about the shitty mess of his life here, or return home and face endless probing questions from his family about his course, his life, his future… Malfoy. Just the thought of their interrogation has his chest tightening and his breath quickening. It’s hard enough maintaining a positive, breezy attitude by owl and email; there’s no way he’ll be able to keep up the pretence when he sees them in person. They’d all been so concerned about his decision to start afresh in America so he doesn’t want to deal with all the _’I told you so’s_ when they realise he’s been struggling.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realises the decision is already been made, but he knows he’ll put off writing home until the last minute. He doesn’t want to give his friends the opportunity to try and change his mind.

He gets up and sits at his desk, scanning the email again for clues as to the identity of this ‘Sure Thing’, but Blaise is infuriatingly vague. There’s no picture, no name, not even a gender… but Blaise’s description— _“…gorgeous, absolutely drop-dead, and you know I don’t throw that word around lightly. Your mouth will water, my friend, your dick will weep salty, happy tears. They’re wet for you too. Totally into that messy-haired, speccy-faced, scruff aesthetic you’re working. They’re a Sure Thing, Harry, and this doesn’t happen very often. Be here for the party or you’ll miss your chance.”_ —is pretty convincing.

Looks like he’s heading to California, he thinks, chucking the socks in the general direction of his chest of drawers and clicking _Reply_ before he can over think things.

* * *

The curb is hard and uncomfortable beneath his arse and for the hundredth time, Harry wishes he had a watch to check whether his ride was late. Once he’d made the decision to visit Blaise for Christmas, he’d had to work out how to get there. It was too far to Apparate, and he couldn’t be arsed with the bureaucracy involved in getting a Portkey for cross-country travel. He’d briefly toyed with the idea of flying—either in a plane or on a broom—but when Trent told him about the ride-share board, he immediately fell in love with the idea of taking a road trip across the States. Perhaps it was the fault of the media for filling his head with romantic ideas of the _Big American Road Trip_ , but it seemed like the perfect way to see more of the country, and maybe even make a few new friends on the way. The ride he found said they were pushing for three stops, arriving in Los Angeles on the fourth day of travel, which sounded like quite a brutal amount of driving each day, but fitted perfectly with Harry’s schedule.

He hugs his jacket more tightly around him and wonders whether he can get away with a sneaky warming charm. It’s so cold his breath leaves him in little, short-lived clouds and the air stings his tired eyes. Harry had arranged to meet his ride a short distance from his building at the arse-crack of dawn, and because he hadn’t wanted to be late, he’d left his dorm with fifteen minutes to spare even though he knew it was only a five-minute walk. He’s paying for his eagerness now, he thinks bitterly as he stands to massage some life back into his numb backside. However, just as he’s wondering whether he has time to run to the nearest open cafe to grab a coffee, a car approaches and pulls into a space in front of him.

The car is a blue so pale it can barely be called blue anymore, and it creaks to a halt with a cloud of exhaust fumes. It doesn’t look like it’ll make it out of the state, let alone all the way to the west coast, but he supposes it’ll add to the adventure. The window winds down and a cheerful, round-cheeked girl pokes her head out.

“Are you Harry?” she asks brightly. Harry is slightly taken aback, meeting someone so unaffected by the ungodliness of the hour.

“Er, yeah, hi.” He slings his rucksack over his shoulder as he takes a few cautious steps towards the car.

“Hi, welcome aboard. I’m Mary Ann Webster.” She reaches her hand out of the window and Harry shakes it politely.

“And I’m Gary Cooper,” says the man in the driver’s seat, leaning across Mary Ann to shake Harry’s hand. “But not the Gary Cooper that’s dead,” he adds with a snorting laugh. Both Gary and Mary Ann erupt into giggles that are wildly inappropriate this early in the day.

Harry forces himself to laugh along with them, not that he has any idea who Gary Cooper is, dead or alive. He’d spoken to Mary Ann on the phone to arrange the lift, but this was the first time meeting her and her boyfriend. They don’t seem too strange. Maybe a little…quirky. Not the cool, rebellious types he’d imagined road-tripping with, but also not deranged murdery types (he hopes), so it could be worse. He glances around to see if there’s anyone else around. If he’s about to be abducted, he’d prefer there to be witnesses.

“Hop in!” they say together, with another titter. Okay, so maybe they _are_ quite strange. 

The rear passenger door shrieks in protest as Harry pulls it open, silently vowing to keep his wand handy at all times _just in case_. He slides into the beige, faux leather seat, tossing his rucksack over the rear seat and into the boot. Gary and Mary Ann are still laughing, the sound already like nails down a chalkboard, which doesn’t bode well for a lengthy car journey. It’s then that he notices that there’s another passenger in the car, and for a split second, Harry is relieved that he won’t be stuck in a car alone with Gary and Mary Ann for 3000 miles. But then he drags his gaze slowly up from tailored trousers to a dark, wool coat to a deep green scarf and of- _bloody_ -course finds Draco Malfoy glaring back at him. He’s all hard angles and sharp edges, his pale blond hair hidden beneath a charcoal woolly hat that somehow manages to look stylish. 

Harry curses inwardly. Of all the people… He really wishes the universe would stop fucking with him. A road trip with Malfoy? He can think of no possible way this can end well.

“Draco, this is Harry,” says Mary Ann cheerfully. 

“And Harry, this is Draco,” adds Gary. They beam at him and Draco before turning back to the front, chatting between each other like a pair of happy chipmunks.

“I knew I should have gotten a Portkey,” Draco mutters, glaring out of the window. His arms are folded defensively across his chest and his body is angled away from Harry. Everything about his body language screams that he’d rather be anywhere else but in a car with Harry, and it irritates him no end. He’s not exactly pleased himself, but he’s not being a pissy little shit about it. Not yet anyway.

“It’s not too late. Feel free to fuck right off.” Okay, so _now_ he’s being a pissy little shit. He can’t help it. Malfoy has the uncanny ability to just draw it out of him.

“Oh, great! You two know each other!” Mary Ann says, beaming at them.

“Er, yeah, we’re old friends,” Harry says, offering her a polite smile. He doesn’t want to antagonise the people responsible for driving him to his shag.

“We’re not friends,” Malfoy growls. “We’re acquaintances. Very distant acquaintances.”

Harry frowns at Malfoy, who sneers back at him.

“Come on guys, let’s make this a fun trip,” Gary urges. Both he and Mary Ann have now swivelled around to stare at Harry and Malfoy over the back of their seats. 

“You know any show tunes?” Mary Ann asks, glancing between them, her face hopeful.

Gary grins broadly. “That’s a great idea! Come on. _When the moooon is in the seventh house—_ ”

“ _And Jupiter aligns with Mars—_ ”

Harry’s polite smile freezes on his face. He wonders for a second whether he’d fallen asleep on the curb and this is actually one of those very vivid nightmares. Any second now, Voldemort is going to pop out from behind a tree and the nightmare will be complete. Who sings show tunes at this hour of the morning? Or ever? Beside him, he can see Malfoy staring in slack-jawed horror at Gary and Mary Ann as they harmonise their way through the song with more pep than should be humanly possible. At least knowing that Malfoy is suffering alongside him helps a little to dull the pain of the cringe-worthy experience.

* * *

Gary and Mary Ann sing. A lot. Harry’s suspicions about them being a little unhinged are further confirmed with each mile they pass. Song after song, harmony after sickening harmony. He has no idea how neither of them has lost their voice yet. He continues to focus on the scenery whizzing past the window and does his best to block out their voices. If he thought he could get away with it, he would cast a Silencing charm, but he doesn’t think MACUSA would accept ‘intense irritation at singing’ as a good reason for breaking the statute of secrecy. No matter, he thinks. He only has to suffer for another 3000 or so miles.

Malfoy is silent. He’s had his face in a book the whole way, saying nothing other than to politely answer a few questions from Gary and refuse their request he join in with the singing. Harry’s refusal had been less diplomatic, but then, he thinks he might be rapidly losing his mind. With the view out of the window becoming monotonous, and his ability to ignore the singing failing, Harry decides to strike up a conversation with Malfoy. 

“You’ll get sick, you know,” he says. 

Malfoy pulls his face from his book long enough to glare at Harry. “Excuse me?”

“Reading in the car. You’ll get travel sick. It’s a thing.” He shrugs. He’s never had a problem with travel sickness himself, but he remembers Hermione getting a little off-colour on the Hogwarts Express sometimes when she couldn’t put a book down.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy snaps, and then angles his body so even more of his back is towards Harry.

“Suit yourself. Just make sure you puke out the window.” 

A few miles of twisting roads later, Harry watches smugly as Malfoy carefully closes the book and cracks the window, looking very green around the gills.

“Here,” he says, offering Malfoy a mint. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to be nice. It must be the boredom or perhaps it’s a sign of his slipping sanity.

Malfoy narrows his eyes at the packet of sweets in Harry’s hand. “What is it?” He looks like Harry’s trying to give him a vial of bubotuber pus. 

Harry shakes his head and releases an exasperated breath. “It’s a polo, you twat. A type of Muggle sweet. Hermione sent them over. Might help settle your stomach.”

Malfoy gingerly plucks the packet from Harry’s hand and gives it a quick sniff before freeing one of the mints from the foil and popping it daintily into his mouth. He hands the packet back with a muttered thank you, but when Harry sees him eyeing it a short while later, he silently hands it back. After all, he doesn’t want Malfoy puking all over the car.

Of course, the temporary truce doesn’t last long. As soon as Malfoy’s colour returns, so too does his irritation at everything Harry says or does. Harry would have minded, only it’s so much fun riling him up, he can’t stop himself. Even Gary and Mary Ann’s obvious irritation at their constant bickering in the back seat did nothing to stop him.

* * *

Gary pushes open the door of the motel room with a weary reluctance that is at odds with his previously chirpy, insanely upbeat, character. When Harry follows him into the room, he finds out why. The walls are an off-peach colour, there are frills and doilies everywhere and there are a couple of washed-out prints of flowers; Harry feels like he’s wandered into the folds of an old lady’s skirt. But worse than the decor—so much worse—is the sight of the two double beds that fill the majority of the floor space, and sit barely four foot apart from each other.

They had planned on getting two or three rooms—fuck the expense—but apparently, everyone in America had decided to visit Pittsburgh tonight and after trying four different motels, this was the first and only room available. Despite both Harry and Malfoy’s pleas that they keep driving until they found somewhere with more space (the one thing they’d actually agreed on since setting off that morning), Gary had refused to drive any further. So, now Harry was stuck sharing a hideous room with three of the most annoying people he’d ever had the misfortune to meet.

“Well, early start tomorrow so Mary Ann and I are going to turn in for the night. Try to keep the noise down if you stay up,” Gary says with a stern glance in Harry’s direction. He and Mary Ann move to the bed closest to the door and start talking quietly to each other as they pull things from their suitcase. 

It’s then that Harry realises who he’s going to be sharing a bed with… _shit._ He eyes the bed critically. He supposes there might be space for them both to sleep in it without touching. Maybe if they stuff a few pillows between them or—

“No. Absolutely no. I’m not sharing with Potter,” Malfoy announces, wearing a look of horrified disgust. Harry almost feels sorry for him. _Almost._

“I’m not exactly thrilled to be sharing with you either.” Harry glares at him and tosses his bag on the empty bed. He might as well claim his side now.

“There has to be another room, another motel. This isn’t some piddly little town in a British backwater, there _has_ to be somewhere else!”

“Oh grow up, Malfoy. I’m not diseased. It’s just sharing a bed, for fuck’s sake.” Harry’s tired. He’s been up for far too long, had far too much caffeine and sugar, and he’s at his limit for Malfoy’s shit. It had been fun to wind him up before, but now he just wants to sleep so he’s got the strength to deal with another day of off-key singing and arguments.

Malfoy comes to stand at the foot of the bed. “Sleep on the floor.”

“What? No! You sleep on the fucking floor.” Harry sits on the bed and relaxes back against the headboard without bothering to take his shoes off, delighting in the look of horror that briefly breaks through the scowl on Malfoy’s face.

“You get on the fucking floor,” Malfoy says, making a grab for one of Harry’s feet.

“Get off me, you prick!” Harry cries as Malfoy tries to drag him off the bed. He lashes out with his free foot, but Malfoy manages to dodge out of the way without releasing his hold. They scuffle, neither gaining any ground as they each try to force the other to the floor, but Harry can’t keep the grin off his face; his blood is pounding through his veins, and all tiredness is forgotten. Malfoy looks similarly enthused, his eyes bright, a determined set to his jaw. Harry crows with joy as he manages to swing a leg around and flip them so Malfoy is beneath him, breathing hard, his face flushed and— 

“Gary, they won’t shut up! Do something,” Mary Ann whines from the other bed. Harry releases his hold on Malfoy’s wrists— _when had that happened??_ —and scrambles off the bed. He’d forgotten all about the others—he suddenly, ridiculously, feels like he’s been caught with his hands down his pants.

“Would you guys please keep a lid on it, we have an early start tomorrow,” Gary says sharply.

Harry rolls his eyes. Fucking Gary. He drags a hand through his hair, still feeling a little antsy from the…altercation with Malfoy and he silently urges his heart to slow down. Malfoy is standing at the foot of the bed again, glaring at Harry as if he can force him to bend to his will by the force of his stare. There are spots of colour high on his cheeks, though, and his hair is more dishevelled than Harry can ever remember seeing it, and it sends a ripple of excitement through Harry knowing that Malfoy’s like that because of him. Feeling brazen, and inexplicably aroused, Harry winks at him and then starts undressing.

“What are you doing?” hisses Malfoy.

“Getting ready for bed. What does it look like?” Harry tosses his jacket and hoodie to the corner then peels off his t-shirt. When he extracts his head from the material, Malfoy has turned away, his face blotchy.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Malfoy grinds out.

“Fine. But you should know, I’m a hugger.” Harry grins. He knows he shouldn’t be winding Malfoy up (again), but it’s just so easy. Malfoy’s lip curls up in a snarl, but Harry ignores him and undoes his trousers, sliding them down his legs with far more flair than is necessary, on the off chance that Malfoy turns around.

As he’s about to slide between the covers, wearing only his Incredible Hulk boxers, they’re yanked from between his fingers. “What the—”

“If you’re getting the bed, I’m getting the bedding.” Malfoy tugs the bedsheets towards him and bundles them up in his arms. “I want three pillows too.”

Harry hugs his knees to his chest in an effort to preserve his modesty. Despite how he was acting earlier, he suddenly feels very exposed. “What the fuck, Malfoy. I’ll freeze!”

Malfoy shrugs. “You wanted the bed. Deal with it.”

“For fuck’s sake—”

“Gary!” Mary Ann’s urgent whisper cuts Harry off before he can tell Malfoy what an immature tit he’s being.

He mumbles an apology and tosses three of the four pitifully thin pillows at Malfoy’s face. Muttering quietly under his breath, he pulls out a pair of joggers, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a pair of clean socks from his rucksack, and dresses more appropriately. At least Malfoy left him one sheet, even though it’s the one separating his body from the tired, old mattress.

* * *

Malfoy huffs as the bundled-up jumper he is using as a makeshift pillow slips down the window, and Harry bites back an amused snort when his head knocks into the window. Gary and Mary Ann had herded them out of the room and into the car before Harry had managed to shower or find coffee so he is still feeling bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed even a couple of hours into the journey. He can’t sleep though, not with Gary and Mary Ann babbling away in the front and Malfoy’s snores to his side. That’s the most annoying thing about his current situation; Malfoy has spent almost the entire journey sleeping, even though Harry is the one who’d been unable to sleep because he’d been busy freezing his nadgers off all night. Malfoy had been snug in his cosy nest on the floor, while Harry had been reduced to sneaking to the bathroom to grab some towels to use as blankets. And if he’d accidentally kicked Malfoy on the way past, it wasn’t his fault. It was dark.

An hour later, Malfoy still hasn’t woken up, and Harry is bored out of his mind. Just for something to do, he starts throwing popcorn at Malfoy’s head. He’d rather have Malfoy awake and pissed off than have to listen to Gary and Mary Ann bicker about fabric softener. 

“Merlin’s fucking tits,” Malfoy says a few moments later, before covering his mouth to hide a yawn. “What’s your problem, Potter?” 

Harry pauses, a piece of popcorn poised in his fingers. “Hey! You’re awake!”

“Startlingly observant of you. Now, piss off.” Malfoy pulls a book out of his bag and flips it open to where a receipt is marking his place, effectively signalling his withdrawal from any conversation. 

Harry’s not ready to give up yet, though. He’s not been this bored since History of Magic with Professor Binns. He looks over at Gary and Mary Ann to check that they’re not paying them any attention, and then leans closer to Malfoy.

“So… have you ever smoked gillyweed or got absolutely off your tits on firewhisky?”

Malfoy drops the book to his lap and whips his head around. “What? What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just, you seem so…studious. Boring. You only ever go to the library or maybe the pool. Don’t you ever just…let loose? Make a total arse of yourself but still have a fucking brilliant time?”

“I’m surprised you have any time for ‘letting loose’ yourself since you apparently spend all your time stalking me.”

“I don’t stalk you!” Harry protests, his face heating. He hadn’t meant to draw attention to the fact that he’d spent so much time following Malfoy around. “Come on, don’t you ever just to do something spontaneous?”

“Spontaneity has its time and its place,” Malfoy snaps. 

Harry is dimly aware of Mary Ann in the background, complaining about them arguing, but he ignores her because the conversation with Malfoy is just getting interesting. “Do you know what you are?” he asks, grinning at Malfoy’s answering sneer.

“What?”

“You’re repressed.”

“No, I’m not!”

Harry settles back onto the car seat, smirking. “Yeah, you are.”

“Fuck you.” Malfoy folds his arms and glares out of the window, and Harry thinks for a minute that he’s pushed too far, but then Malfoy turns back to him, eyes glinting. “I can be as spontaneous as the next person if I want. I just chose not to be.”

The grin on Harry’s face widens. “Yeah? Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“That’s because you can’t. You’re repressed.”

“You don’t have to be stupid to be spontaneous. You can—”

“Repressed,” Harry sing-songs back, enjoying the way the colour rises in Malfoy’s cheeks.

“You’re an idiot, Potter. A bloody Gryffindor idiot. I don’t have to—”

“Reprehhh-essed,” Harry sing-songs again.

Malfoy lets out a frustrated snarl and winds down the window in sharp, jerky motions. “You want spontaneity, I’ll give you spontaneity,” he snaps. All of a sudden, his hands at his belt, undoing his trousers with fumbling fingers, and before Harry realises what is going on, Malfoy has shimmied his trousers and pants down past his hips, bent forward—his head getting worryingly close to Harry’s lap in the process—and a stuck his pasty, white arse out of the window. 

“Is this spontaneous enough for you, Potter? Come and get it, boys!” he yells over his shoulder as a jeep drives past honking its horn, its passengers hollering.

Harry can barely believe his eyes, he’s so shocked he can barely respond beyond a near hysterical laugh. Merlin, but no one will ever believe him if he tells them Malfoy stuck his bum out of a moving car. In the front of the car, Mary Ann is shrieking, and Gary shouts something that sounds like a swearword and the car swerves dramatically, but Malfoy doesn’t pull his arse back in. It’s definitely one of the more surreal moments of his life, Harry thinks, whooping as another car passes with its horn blaring.

* * *

If Harry had known there were random police officers hidden at the sides of the road in America, then he might have thought twice before riling Malfoy up, he thinks, as he watches the officer talk to Gary from the safety of the back seat. Malfoy has returned to stony-faced silence, although his face still glows bright red from the telling-off the officer gave him after pulling them over. He sits stiffly, with his arms crossed in front of him, glaring out of the window. Harry has a strong urge to poke him in the cheek to see if he can’t make him relax just a little bit and diffuse some of the lingering tension between them. He’s fairly sure Malfoy wouldn’t respond favourably to a face-poke, though, so he fights the impulse.

He tears his attention from Malfoy and pokes his head out of the window in time to hear the officer list the offences he pulled Gary over for.

“…exposure, driving so as to endanger…”

“Driving with a load not properly tied down,” Harry adds, smirking at his own hilarity as he ducks back inside the car.

“What the fuck, Potter?” Malfoy snaps. Harry’s glad to see him break out of his trance, but he’s getting sick of the enmity. It’s been fun, to a point, but it’s starting to get a little exhausting. He wouldn’t mind having a proper conversation with Malfoy once or twice.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist now?”

“Are you trying to get us arrested?” Malfoy hisses.

They both look out the window as they hear the policeman start up his motorbike and then watch as he drives away. Before Harry can say anything though, the boot of the car opens and he turns to see Gary grab his rucksack off the top of the pile and toss it to the ground.

“Hey!” he starts, but then Gary grabs Malfoy’s much larger suitcase and chucks it out of the car too. Harry’s out of the car in a second. He knows exactly what’s about to happen and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Gary, wait! Don’t do this!” He grabs hold of Gary’s jacket without really thinking through what he’s going to do next, just certain that needs to stop Gary driving off and leaving him at the side of the road in the middle of fucking nowhere with _Draco sodding Malfoy_. It’s only as he stares pleadingly up into Gary’s face that he realises the man—who up until this point had seemed infuriatingly mild-mannered—has several inches on him, and a stony expression that tells Harry there will be no talking him round.

He turns around to tell Malfoy to stay in the car, only to find him standing with his hands on his hips and staring at his suitcase—which is now laying on its side in the dirt—with a look of abject horror. 

“Lock the doors, Mary Ann,” Gary shouts as he tries to pull away from Harry.

“No! Wait! I’ll do anything,” Harry pleads. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Malfoy looking confused, glancing between his suitcase, the car, and the presumably odd sight of Harry dangling from Gary’s lapels.

Sensing no way he can win without the use of a morally questionable spell or two, Harry releases his vice-like grip and steps back apologetically. Gary glares at him as he climbs back into the car. In the next second, the engine sputters to life, and suddenly Harry doesn’t care about what’s morally right or sane; he’s about to be abandoned miles and miles from civilisation with Malfoy! In a last desperate attempt to save himself, Harry throws himself onto the bonnet as the car pulls away, scrabbling for a handhold on the smooth metal, and managing to hook his fingers around the windscreen wipers.

“Gary! Please!” he cries “I’ll do anything! I’ll sing show tunes! Just don’t—”

He hears Mary Ann shrieking and Gary yelling, and possibly Malfoy is shouting something too, but the car doesn’t slow down so he cuts his losses and releases his hold before the car starts to move too fast. Even so, it’s an awkward dismount and he rolls off the bonnet in a tangle of limbs, hitting the gravel with a heavy, crunching thud. He feels something snap as he lands and does a quick internal run-through of his body parts to check if anything feels broken.

“Potter!” Malfoy sounds pissed off as he approaches, his footsteps grinding on the dirt. Harry groans and he mentally readies himself for whatever scolding Malfoy is certainly going to administer. He can’t help the little flash of warmth that flares in his chest at the thought of Malfoy running after him, even though he sounds more annoyed than concerned. He must be a little worried about Harry to come and check he’s not died from falling from a moving car, though. Maybe he doesn’t completely hate him. 

“Just what in the name of Cernunnos do you think you’re playing at? Facing down a Muggle automobile by throwing yourself at its mercy? Did you forget you’re a wizard? What is wrong with you!?” Harry slowly peels open his eyes, squinting against the weak sunlight. Malfoy is standing over him, glaring, his nostrils flared, his hair whipping about his head. He sounds a little hysterical and Harry considers saying something comforting, but he’s a little preoccupied with the snapping sound he heard. It wasn’t any of his bones, which is obviously a good thing, but… 

Oh fuck.

He sits up and shakes out his sleeve, ignoring Malfoy’s continued berating, and prays to every passing deity that what he suspects has happened, hasn’t… but his heart plummets as his worst fears are confirmed. The tip of his wand slides out, hitting the ground with barely a rattle, followed a moment later by the rest of it. Unfortunately no longer attached. He stares mournfully at the two pieces of holly and regrets every single decision that brought him to this point—stuck in a shitty lay-by in the middle of bum fuck nowhere, America with nothing but Draco sodding Malfoy and broken wand for company. Was this his punishment from some higher power for ever entertaining the idea of getting rid of it? Or maybe it was the universe’s shitty way of telling him to stop fucking about and get a new wand already. 

“Fuck!” he yells, pushing himself up from the ground and thrusting his hands into his hair. He gathers up the two pieces of his wand, his head spinning, stomach lurching. The longer of the two pieces sparks and fizzes as he curls his finger around it…maybe…maybe it’ll still work. He points it at a small rock.

 _“Wingardium Leviosa.”_ The rock wobbles slightly but doesn’t lift from the ground. _“WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!”_ he yells, focusing all his magic on the spell. Bright sparks flare out of the splintered end of his wand and there is a broken screech, like nails down a chalkboard, then the rock shatters, leaving nothing but a small cloud of dust hanging in the air.

 _”Fuck.”_ He closes his eyes and hangs his head for a brief moment, before carefully slotting the two pieces into the holster on his calf—which is something he should have done in the first place, instead of just sliding it up his sleeve like an idiot. “FUCK!” he yells again, his face skyward. He can’t bring himself to look at Malfoy just yet. 

After a few minutes of frustrated cursing and replaying the moment in his head so he can torture himself with everything he could have/should have done differently, Harry takes a few steadying breaths. He needs a plan. _They_ need a plan, he corrects himself, remembering that Malfoy is still there, even though he’s remained quiet this whole time. He’s probably doubled-over in silent laughter, Harry thinks bitterly. Or worse, he could be watching Harry with pity in his eyes.

He turns and is relieved to find Malfoy scowling at the ground, his hands stuffed into his pockets. At least with Malfoy here, they still have one wand between them, so the situation isn’t completely dire. He’s fairly sure snapped wands aren’t fixable—he knows from experience that _Spellotape_ doesn’t do a great job—but would a _Reparo_ work? Malfoy’s a fairly decent wizard, from what Harry grudgingly remembers… 

A loose plan starts to slot into place in his head: get back to college and email Hermione to ask her advice. But first…

“Don’t suppose you want to try a _Reparo_?” he asks with a depreciative chuckle, scuffing his shoe in the dirt.

Malfoy glares at him. “Are you fucking serious?” he snaps, and Harry is a little taken aback by the strength of his venom. Anyone would think it was Malfoy who’d just snapped the end off his wand.

“No need to be an arse about it, I was just asking. At least you still have a wand.” He considers bringing up the fact that it’s technically Malfoy’s fault they’re in their current predicament but bites his tongue. “Do you think you can side-along me back to college?”

Based on Malfoy’s incredulous look, Harry reckons that was the wrong thing to say. Again. “I couldn’t even apparate us to the other side of the road let alone several hundred miles away. Do you honestly think I’d be travelling like this, with you and those…those idiots, if there was any alternative?”

“Oh, fuck off. Well, we’re not travelling with them any more, thanks to you and your shiny, white arse.” Malfoy draws himself up even as his face colours, but Harry continues before he can say anything “Whatever. You can at least side-along me to the nearest town so I can try and get a ride back to campus. Surely even you’re not dickish enough to leave me here, wandless.” 

Malfoy’s face is blotchy and red, his lips pursed together. He won’t meet Harry’s eyes, and instead looks like he’s trying to bore through the ground with his glare alone. Harry frowns and cocks his head to one side as he tries to make sense of Malfoy’s expression.

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to Apparate us away from here, Potter. I _can’t_.” He angles his body away from Harry and watches as a truck rumbles past.

“But…why? I mean… yeah, I guess it might take a couple of jumps maybe, but I always thought you were quite a good wizard.” He flushes when he realises what he’s just admitted, but refuses to look away and is relieved to see Malfoy look a little flustered too.

“That may be so, but I’m still on probation. My magic has been limited to prevent me from using all but the most basic of spells. I can just about summon a mug from a cupboard when I’m standing right next to it.” He looks intensely uncomfortable with the admission, and Harry tries to hide his surprise. Now he thinks about it, though, he remembers something about restrictions being mentioned at the trial. He’d kind of switched off once he was sure Malfoy and his mother had escaped any time in Azkaban, his mind already on the media storm that would surely follow the judgement.

“Sorry…I um. I didn’t realise. Well…maybe—if you don’t mind that is—I can use your wand to apparate us back to campus? And we can try our luck with the bureaucratic nonsense that’s involved to get a Portkey or… ” he trails off, noticing Malfoy’s stony expression.

“How do you think they’re monitoring my magic use, you halfwit,” Malfoy grinds out. “Besides, I don’t even carry my wand with me these days. It’s worse than useless.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” He frowns and scratches his head, searching for the right words. It must be awful being forced to live without magic, especially for someone like Malfoy who’s been surrounded by magic his whole life. Merlin, that must be why the Malfoy’s disappeared; they were too ashamed to be seen living like squibs. He knows he’d struggle himself. He can manage a few spells wandlessly—conjuring lube, summoning small objects, turning the pages of magazines when he was otherwise occupied—which he’d learnt out of necessity because he’s too lazy to reach for his wand each time, but other than that he’d be stuck. “Have you learnt many wandless spells?” Harry asks, hoping Malfoy can do something more useful than summon a few, small rocks and then lubricate them. He wonders how easy it would be to wandlessly apparate.

“Learnt any wandless spells? Circe, give me strength. As if it’s that simple. Oh, why didn’t I think of that?” Malfoy snarls, dripping sarcasm from every vowel. “We’re not all wunderkinds like you, Potter,” he mutters darkly. “Most wandless magic takes years to master.”

Harry sighs. It was worth a try. He surveys the bleak landscape around them, wondering whether it’s best to go the way they just came or push onwards. He doesn’t remember how long ago it was that they last passed through a town, or even a rest stop. Fuck. He hasn’t had nearly enough caffeine for this shit. 

“This is all your fault,” Draco mutters as he picks up his large suitcase and stomps away.

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing? Thanks to you and your failed heroics, we’re stuck on the side of the road. I’d rather walk back to that last town we passed than spend another second here with your ugly face.” 

“Me!? I’m not the one who flashed a fucking policeman. If anything, this whole mess is your fault!”

Draco’s face darkens. “That’s irrelevant now.” He continues his march down the road, struggling with his cumbersome suitcase. Harry watches him for a few moments, then groans and trots after him. Malfoy may be used to living around Muggles, but Harry would wager he’ll still manage to fuck up in front of the locals if left alone. He dislikes the git, but he doesn’t want to see him arrested.

“Wait, Malfoy,” Harry says as he draws level with him. His rucksack digs uncomfortably into his shoulder and he regrets packing the extra pair of trainers and all the spare underwear. “This is stupid. We passed that town ages ago—it must be miles away—there’s no way we’ll get there before nightfall! And when’s the last time you walked further than the cafeteria? We should try hitching a lift or something.” 

Malfoy stops so suddenly, Harry only narrowly avoids crashing into him. He whirls around, jabbing his finger into Harry’s chest. “I’ll have you know I’m in peak physical condition. I run every day, and I swim at least twice a week, not that it’s any of your business.” As he turns, no doubt to continue storming away from Harry in a strop, he stumbles over his suitcase, hitting the ground with a crunch and an _oof_ that has Harry wincing in sympathy. He reaches out to offer his help, but Malfoy’s furious glare pulls him up short and he retreats to a slightly safer distance. “What do you do, anyway, besides stumbling around the quad with your jock friends, chasing after those toothless Fanged Frisbees,” he spits, dusting off his trousers.

“Hey, I’m fit. Just because I’m not a twat about it, doesn’t mean I don’t exercise.” If running between classes can be called exercise, he tags on silently.

Malfoy snorts and starts to walk away again. Harry’s half-tempted to shoot an _Incarcerous_ at his back and truss him up like a Christmas turkey so he can’t prance off anywhere, but then he remembers, with a stab of sadness, about his broken wand. He calls out after him. “Can’t we at least try hitching a lift? It’s going to be dark before we get anywhere.”

“You can try what you like, but I’m walking,” Malfoy replies without looking around. 

Harry rolls his eyes. Malfoy looks ridiculous lugging that unnecessarily large suitcase behind him. “Why do you have to be such a dick?” he shouts back, kicking a loose pebble across the road. 

“Speak for yourself!”

“Fine, do what you like, but I’m not walking back the way we came.”

“Fine. Fuck off, then.”

Harry stomps away from Malfoy with a frustrated growl, sticking his thumb out in the hopes that someone will take pity on him. He’s done trying to keep the idiot safe. Stupid Malfoy with his perfect hair and fit body. It would serve him right if he gets lost and has to spend the night in the bushes. There’s no way the pampered pure-blood can survive on his own out here. 

A couple of cars pass, ignoring his outstretched arm and cocked thumb. He doesn’t blame them. He probably looks like one of those strangers people meet at the beginning of a horror film, with his wild hair, tired eyes, scuffed up jacket, and the rucksack he’d borrowed from Charlie Weasley before coming to America, which had to be at least fifty years old. 

Guilt starts to prickle under his skin the further along the road he gets. He’s going to feel awful if anything actually were to happen to Malfoy. And of course, something is going to happen because he’s _Malfoy_ , and he’s an obnoxious twat who doesn’t know when to shut up, and nor does he understand Muggles in the way that Harry does. He’s going to get himself killed, and Harry’s the one who’s going to have to live with the knowledge he could have prevented it, if only he’d been able to swallow down his irritation and stop the git from running off in a strop.

He looks over his shoulder and sees Malfoy still struggling along with his suitcase. It’s one of those fancy ones with wheels that must have cost a small fortune, but the wheels are worse than useless on the roadside gravel. He can only imagine what Malfoy has filled it with; he looks like he’s packed for a six-month trip rather than a couple of weeks—surely there hadn’t even been that much in his room?

A battered old pick-up slows as it passes Malfoy and Harry thinks for a moment that it’s slowing for him. It gets his hackles up immediately, his instincts telling him to avoid at all costs. Before he can think up a way to politely decline the lift, though, the pick-up makes a U-turn and pulls in alongside Malfoy. And if Harry’s instincts had been quietly suggesting he decline the lift when he’d thought it was for him, now they are screaming at him to stop Malfoy getting into the pick-up.

“Malfoy!” he yells, waving his arms to get the boy’s attention. “Don’t get in!” Malfoy glances round at him, the distance too great to see what sort of expression he’s pulling, but there’s no mistaking the extended middle finger. He heaves his suitcase into the back of the truck and climbs into the front without another look back.

_Bollocks._

Harry races down the road towards the pick-up, the gravel kicking up beneath his trainers, but it’s futile. It’s too far away, and he’s never been that quick on his feet. If only he had his broom, or a wand that wasn’t in two pieces in his holster and as likely to explode the pick-up as stop it. Gravel spits out from beneath the tires as the pick-up accelerates away, making another U-turn and driving back past Harry, slowly enough that he can make out Draco’s smirk and see him wiggle his fingers in a small, smug wave. 

He watches as the truck grows smaller and smaller, disappearing into the distance, and desperation claws at his chest. He can’t just do nothing. Malfoy could get robbed or raped or murdered or…no. He shuts down that pointless line of thought and concentrates on the diminishing shape of the pick-up. He’s never apparated to a moving target before, never even apparated without his wand, so there is a very high probability of this going massively tits-up and ending with him as a Harry-coloured smear on the tarmac… But he has to try. He has to do something…

He squeezes his eyes shut and draws on his magic, focusing Malfoy’s suitcase, which he knows is in the back of the pick-up. There’s no way it’s going to work but… _Destination; determination; deliberation!_

The air compresses him from all sides, crushing him in on himself as he spins and he feels a tug on his navel, and…

He lands with a thud, face-down on something cool and scratchy. There’s something solid beneath him, pressing into his chest and making it difficult to breathe, and the whole world feels like it’s vibrating. He carefully rolls onto his back, and nothing feels broken—bruised, yes, and he thinks he may have grazed his hands, but at least everything seems to be attached. He’s suddenly aware of air rushing past his ears, which would explain the whooshing, roaring noise, and he’s cold. So cold. But then everything gets quieter, the world stops vibrating, the hurricane swirling around him stills, and he remembers. Remembers Malfoy, remembers the pick-up, remembers the need to save him.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and sees skeletal trees clawing the sky above him. The air is cold; his breath rises in puffy clouds. The cool, scratchy material he’d felt beneath him is a torn piece of tarp, and the solid object he’d winded himself with is Malfoy’s suitcase. He heaves out a relieved sigh, knowing that by some stroke of luck, he’d managed to land exactly where he intended. It would have been both embarrassing and inconvenient to land in the wrong pick-up.

Raised voices capture his attention and he carefully eases himself off the bed of the pick-up and onto his hands and knees, inching towards the window in the back of the cab. Malfoy is pressed back against the far window, while a man leans in, a gun held loosely in one hand. He’s old, his greying-brown hair partially hidden beneath a pale cowboy hat, and he wears a grey suit over a white shirt. He looks so… normal, like someone you might see working in a Muggle bank or in an office, except for the fact he has a gun in one hand while the other has a tight grip around Malfoy’s collar. Harry’s blood turns to ice and his magic surges through him, crackling in the air. He raises his hands, unsure of what he wants to do, but knowing he needs to do something—not that he can do more than bang on the window and yell a bit—but before he can make contact with the glass, there’s a red flash and the window explodes inwards. Malfoy and the man freeze as they are showered with tiny, glittering shards. Harry makes the most of the confusion to draw on the last of his magic and aims a wandless _Stupify_ at the man before he can remember about the gun in his hand. The spell feels weak as it leaves his hand, but it’s enough to push the man backwards and his head meets the driver’s side window with a wet thud. 

Harry leaps over the side of the truck and wrenches the passenger door open. Malfoy tumbles out of the car and landing in a heap at Harry’s feet, scrabbling backwards in the dirt to put some distance between him and the truck.

Harry can barely keep himself upright, he’s so drained from all the wandless casting. He bends double, resting his hands on his knees and sucks in a few heaving breaths. In his head, his inner Hermione scolds him and tells him how foolish he’s been, but right now he doesn’t care because Malfoy is safe. 

“Come on, you idiot,” Malfoy snaps. Harry straightens. He hadn’t even noticed Malfoy getting up, but now he’s standing in front of him, pale and trembling, brushing the dirt off his clothes, his face washed-out yet determined. “We have no idea how long he’s going to be out for and I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy dealing with him again.” 

“Yeah, you’re right, sorry.” Harry drags a weary, shaking hand down his face and steps back from the car, slamming the door shut. They grab their bags and wordlessly agree to head back to the main road. Malfoy’s normally pale face is white as a sheet, and for a long time after they flee the scene, he throws wild-eyed glances over his shoulder and tenses every time a car approaches. Harry wants to comfort him, wants to let him know everything will be okay, but the words feel empty even in his head and he doubts Malfoy would appreciate platitudes. So they walk in silence, Malfoy dragging his huge suitcase and Harry maintaining a careful distance; close enough to show he’s there, but giving him his space.

“I can’t believe you wandlessly apparated onto a moving vehicle. Are you insane?” Malfoy’s voice is scratchy from disuse, but his tone is harsh and it startles Harry out of his reverie. He’s not sure how long they’ve been walking in silence but it feels like hours. He looks up at Malfoy, blinking slowly as everything comes back into focus. His head feels fuzzy and his legs feel like a pair of lead weights and it takes him a little while to fully parse what Malfoy is saying. He can, at least, register how pissed off he sounds. Had he even thanked Harry for saving him yet?

“A thank you wouldn’t go amiss,” he mutters, annoyed that he’s spent all this time worrying about Malfoy only to get yelled at out of the blue. “We can always head back, let you cosy up in the front seat with that psycho.” 

Malfoy shoots him a sharp glare. “I could have handled things myself, you realise. You… You didn’t need to come rushing in to save me—I’m not a blushing damsel in distress, and you’re not my knight in shining armour.”

“Well fuck you. I know I didn’t need to save your pasty arse, but I did. What would you have done if I hadn’t turned up? Snarked at him? Cut him down to size with a few harsh words? Do you even know what a gun is? He could have killed you!”

“Of course I know what a gun is, but you could have been killed too! Did you even think about that? How do you think I would have felt knowing that you splinched yourself, or worse, all because you can’t help but throw yourself in harm’s way. Without a bloody wand, too!” 

Harry’s speechless. It almost sounds like Malfoy cares whether or not he dies. He opens his mouth to defend his actions, but Malfoy isn’t finished. He rounds on Harry, hands on his hips, and Harry has to bite his lip to prevent a giggle when he’s instantly put in mind of Molly Weasley.

“And then—,” he steps forward and prods Harry in the chest, “— _and then_ , after foolishly Apparating onto a moving vehicle—probably with no prior experience of doing such a thing—you wandlessly explode a window and _Stupefy_ a man! Have you no self-preservation? You asked me if I know what a gun is, but do you have any idea how dangerous it is to run down your magical core like that? You could barely stand!”

Malfoy glares at him, his chest heaving, spots of colour on his cheeks. His hair is swept back off his face from all the times he’s raked his fingers through it, the strands clumped together with sweat and dirt despite the frigid air, and there is still a faint tremble to his hands which he’s clearly trying to hide with clenched fists. It suddenly dawns on Harry that Malfoy isn’t being a shit for no reason; he’s scared. He’s had a terrifying experience, and he’s dealing with it the only way he knows how; lashing out. 

He sighs and forces himself to relax. Fighting with Malfoy isn’t going to help their situation. “I’m sorry for scaring you—”

“I wasn’t—”

Harry holds up a hand to silence Malfoy’s protest. “And I’m sorry for what that man tried to do to you. If it makes you feel better, next time a creepy old man tries to abduct you, I’ll let you deal with it, okay?” 

Malfoy narrows his eyes and purses his lips, but then concedes with a brief, faint smile and a nod. “Okay.”

Harry waits to see if anything more will be forthcoming, but the silence stretches on between them. Malfoy stares at the ground, his brows drawn together, fists clenching and unclenching, so Harry shuffles his rucksack into a more comfortable position and turns to walk away. 

“Thank you…for…for saving me.” Malfoy says the words so quietly, Harry almost misses them. He turns to look at Malfoy, but he’s staring at his feet, his cheeks pink, and it warms Harry a little to know that his efforts were appreciated

They lapse into silence again, but it’s not as heavy as before. Night is approaching, the shadows growing longer, but Harry can see the lights of a town in the distance so it feels like there is finally an end to their nightmare in sight. It’s going to be a long walk, but he doesn’t think either of them is ready to attempt hitchhiking so fresh on the heels of the last experience.

* * *

The town steadily grows up around them as they plod on with stiff legs, the gravel track at the side of the road giving way to pavement, homes replacing farmsteads, followed by warehouses, more homes, shops, apartments; the buildings getting more densely packed the further they walk. Harry could have cried when the first cab he sees informs him that yes, there is a bus station, and yes, buses run to Los Angeles.

Harry had been the first to eventually break the silence during their slow trek towards civilisation. He talked mostly to himself initially, just for something to do, but eventually, Malfoy had joined in with a few acerbic comments before warming up to the conversation. There was nothing deep or Earth-shattering said, and they kept well away from any controversial topics, instead chatting about their courses, new friends, old friends, why they were heading to California (for reasons he doesn’t want to dwell on, Harry omitted the bit about the _Sure Thing_ ). Malfoy was keen to hear how Blaise was getting on, so Harry spent a long time recounting all the stories he had of Blaise from their eighth year together. If it hadn’t been for his throbbing feet and the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Harry would have said he’d had a good time chatting to Malfoy. At the very least, tensions between them feel much lower, and by the time they get in the cab, the silence between them is comfortable, friendly even.

It’s late by the time they arrive at the bus station, thanking the driver profusely and tipping him handsomely before stumbling into the large, ugly building. The bright lights and off-white walls hurt Harry’s eyes after so long outside, but he’s never been happier to see rows of hard plastic seats and dented snack machines. Malfoy stops just inside the entrance, looking torn between horror and fascination, and Harry has to tug on his sleeve to get his attention and encourage him to move so he doesn’t get left behind. They weave through the milling crowd of weary travellers and head to the only open ticket window, and it’s with great relief that they see they haven’t yet missed the LA bus. 

The queue moves slowly and Harry winces as all the aches and twinges in his body make themselves known. At his side, Malfoy chats away happily—there’s no stopping him now he’s apparently decided Harry isn’t all bad—passing comment about Muggle fashion sense, interior design, the inefficient floor layout of public buildings as Harry hmms and nods in the appropriate places. He lets the gentle hum of Malfoy’s voice wash over him, the high ceilings of the bus station giving it an echoey quality, as he imagines it soothing his sore muscles.

When their turn comes, Malfoy elbows Harry out of the way and buys his ticket with barely restrained excitement. 

“See you on the bus,” he says, ticket in hand and a boyish grin plastered across his face that strikes Harry temporarily speechless. He watches him walk away, ignoring the disappointment that trickles down his spine at the thought of their adventure together being over. Malfoy wasn’t going to want to sit next to him on the bus, that he is sure of. 

“Yeah? What’ll it be?” Harry’s attention is yanked back to the cashier, a dour-faced man who looks like he would rather be anywhere else. He eyes Harry dispassionately from beneath eyebrows so thick, they seem to be making his skin sag under their weight. 

“Erm, how much for the next bus to Los Angeles?”

The man—Mike, according to his badge—looks at him like Harry had asked what colour pants he’s wearing. “Single or return?”

“Oh, um, single.”

“Hundred and eighty bucks.”

Harry’s eyes widen because fucking hell, that’s a lot of money. But it’s that or slink back to Brown, shag-less and alone, so he reluctantly pulls out his card. “Okay, I’ll take one. A single, I mean. To Los Angeles. Thank you.” He slides his card through the small gap in the perspex.

“Next bus isn’t until tomorrow night. That okay?”

“But isn’t there one leaving soon? My uh… my friend literally just bought a ticket. I need to get on that bus.”

“You mean blondie? He got the last seat. You’ll have to fight it out with him if you’re that desperate to travel. Or you could hope for a no-show.” He shrugs, and his tone suggests that he doesn’t consider this a likely possibility.

“There’s no bus sooner than tomorrow night?”

“That’s what I said.” 

Harry tries to think logically through his options. If he gets a ticket for the next available bus, he’s probably not going to get to Los Angeles in time for the party, which means the Sure Thing won’t be there, which means the whole journey will have been a massive waste of time and he should have just gone home for Christmas. What he really needs is a Portkey—he’s willing to put up with as much bureaucracy as they want to throw at him—but since he has no idea where the nearest MACUSA building is, that’s not looking like a viable option. He supposes he could try and convince Malfoy to sell him his ticket… no, there’s no way that’s going to happen. He’d take a broom, at this point, fuck the exhaustion.

“Sir.” Mike’s tired voice breaks through Harry’s internal dithering. “If you’re not going to buy a ticket, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the line.”

“Oh, um. Okay, I… I think I need to think about it. Sorry. I guess I’ll just… over here… ” He trails off as he steps away from the counter, remembering to grab his card back at the last minute before shuffling away, red-faced. Several people tut and he swears he hears the words ‘time waster’ muttered once or twice as he pushes back through the queue. At least Malfoy is on the bus so he won’t have witnessed Harry’s embarrassment. He probably won’t even notice if Harry’s not on the bus.

He sits down in one of the hard, plastic chairs and drops his head into his hands. He suddenly feels an overwhelming sadness for his broken wand and has to take a few steady breaths to clear the threat of tears. Everything would be so much simpler if he hadn’t broken his stupid wand—he wouldn’t be getting a sore arse from sitting on the world’s most uncomfortable chair, for a start. He could Apparate back to Brown and pretend this failed attempt at getting a sex life never happened. 

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, standing up and hoisting his rucksack back on his shoulder. He’s got this far, he can hitchhike the rest. He’s not an idiot like Malfoy; he’ll be able to find a non-murderous ride. He turns to look for the exit and comes face to face with Malfoy.

“There you are,” Malfoy says, with a hesitant smile. He has his ticket clasped in one hand, the handle of his suitcase in the other. “Shall we get on the bus, or are you planning to sit here and soak up the ambience of despair and boredom for a little while longer?” Harry’s stomach lurches, and the granola bar he’d munched on earlier threatens to make a sudden reappearance. He’s touched that Malfoy waited for him, but that warm fuzzy feeling is outweighed by guilt because now he’s going to have to explain that he’d been planning on slipping away before Malfoy noticed. At Harry’s continued silence, Malfoy’s expression tightens; Harry can practically see the walls he’d started to chip away at on their long walk here get thrown back up. “Well, what are you waiting for? It leaves in ten minutes.” 

“Uh, you see. The thing is…” He runs a hand through his hair and stares at a stain on the tiled floor to avoid Malfoy’s piercing gaze. He’s worried about disappointing Malfoy, which he knows is ridiculous because why would Malfoy care if Harry’s on the bus or not? It’s more likely that he’s going to be over the moon to know he won’t have to suffer Harry’s presence for the lengthy Greyhound trip. “I…um. I was thinking of, you know, trying hitchhiking again. I’ve never much liked buses.”

Malfoy’s jaw drops open but then he seems to remember himself and snaps it shut. “Because it was such a roaring success the first time?” 

“Hey, just because you offer yourself up to the first psycho that looked in your direction, doesn’t mean I’ll do the same.”

“He looked like a broomstick salesman!” Malfoy cries, his voice cutting through the low buzz of conversation and drawing them more than a few glances. 

Harry gasps and claps a hand over Malfoy’s mouth, but no one seems to have found anything too odd about a grown man yelling about broomsticks because they’ve all turned away already. Malfoy rolls his eyes and pushes Harry’s hand away, but continues in a hissed whisper anyway. “How was I supposed to know he was deranged? Come on, spit it out. What’s the real reason you’re risking your life to get to California? Am I that terrible a travel companion that you’d rather risk having your organs harvested…? No, that can’t be it; I’m a delight. You can’t have run out of money because everyone and their bloody uncle knows how over-stuffed your vaults are thanks to that article Skeeter wrote a few months back.”

Harry remembers the article well—it still makes him cringe to think about it, much like most of the tripe Skeeter writes about him—but he’s surprised that Malfoy read it. He searches his brain for a believable excuse, but it’s impossible to think of anything under Malfoy’s intense scrutiny. 

“Oh, or have you since burned through every last Galleon of your inheritance and only came to America to hide from the scandal? Merlin, I hope that’s it. If you need me to buy you a ticket, just say so. I won’t make you beg. Not much, anyway.” 

Harry feels like he should feel offended by the look of pure glee blooming across Malfoy’s face, but his smile is infectious and Harry can’t help but grin in response. “Fuck off, Malfoy,” he says without bite. “I have money, and I don’t need you to buy me a ticket.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Fine, I get it. It’s okay for you to rescue me, but when it’s the other way around, you don’t like it.”

“It’s not like that, you prat.”

“Then tell me.”

Harry sighs. Why can Malfoy never leave things alone? “You bought the last ticket, okay? That’s why I’m not going on the bus. _That’s_ why I’m gonna hitchhike, or go home, or whatever. I’ve not decided yet.”

Several expressions flicker across Malfoy’s face; he looks kind of sad—disappointed, even—just for a split-second, before all emotion is carefully wiped from his face. “Oh. I… Sorry, I had no idea.” 

“It’s fine.” Harry shrugs. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it. “Go get on the bus, Malfoy. And say hi to Chad from me when you get there,” Harry says with forced cheeriness. He doesn’t know why he brought up _Chad_ , but it’s out there now. No taking it back.

Malfoy looks like he wants to protest, and Harry kind of wants him to… but in the end, Malfoy says nothing. He purses his lips, nods stiffly and walks out to the waiting bus. 

Harry sits back down, rather heavily, on one of the hideously uncomfortable plastic seats, in between a straggly-haired old man who smells like wee and soggy biscuits, and a prim-looking woman in a skirt suit who looks seconds away from whipping out the disinfectant spray. Her perfume is overly floral and sickly and it sticks in the back of his nose; he almost prefers soggy biscuit man’s aroma. He hangs his head in his hands and tries to block everything out so he can concentrate on his problem. He desperately wants to get to LA and meet this Sure Thing Blaise has found, but if he can’t make it in time for the party, what’s the point? And what was he thinking in the first place, travelling across the country just to get his dick wet? He’s abandoning everyone he loves back home in England, at Christmas, for a shag with a stranger. What an absolute cock. He thinks of all the pub nights with the Hogwarts gang he’s missing; he thinks of Ron and Hermione spending Christmas at the Burrow surrounded by friends and family; he thinks of little Teddy who, at eighteen months, might actually understand a little bit more about what’s going this Christmas—would he miss Harry? Does he even remember him?—and Harry suddenly feels incredibly homesick. They probably hate him right now, though. He left campus without checking to see if anyone replied to the very last minute owls he’d sent explaining the change of plans so it’s likely there’s an angry letter or two waiting for him at Brown’s centre for magical communication.

If only he hadn’t snapped his fucking wand. So many of his current problems would be solved with the cheerful application of magic. 

He scrubs his hands over his face. Wallowing isn’t going to do any good. Neither is berating himself for thinking with his dick instead of his head. He needs to get moving, find a ride, and get to California, whether or not he actually makes it in time for the party. It’s still a whole new state, with a whole new wealth of opportunities, and with Blaise there to help him out, there is no way he is ending the holidays shag-less. 

With a new determination to _Get Shit Done,_ Harry stands up and strides towards the exit, only to spot Malfoy through the crowd, chatting to a girl just inside the doors. She looks to be about their age, her face mostly hidden behind a curtain of straight, dark brown hair. There appears to be something wrong though because as she turns, Harry can see her eyes are swollen and red from tears, and her face is blotchy. He speeds up his approach, pushing past people with barely an ‘excuse me’, unsure of what has happened. If Malfoy has done anything… As Harry watches, Malfoy hands her what looks like a small piece of paper and she throws her arms around his neck and pecks him on the cheek before dashing out of the door. 

Harry approaches with caution. “What was that about?”

“Oh good, you’re here. What’s the plan?”

“What? What plan?”

“I’ve decided to come with you. I can be spontaneous too, you know.”

“You’re coming with me? But what about your ticket?”

“I gave it away.”

Harry is about to ask ‘To who?’ but then he remembers Malfoy with the girl, just a few moments before, and how happy she’d been after he handed her that bit of paper. Harry shakes his head in disbelief. He can’t quite get his head around Malfoy giving away a two hundred dollar ticket to complete stranger. A strangled _“Why?”_ is the only thing he can manage.

“Do I need a reason to be kind, Potter? You don’t have the monopoly on good deeds.”

“Sorry, sorry…I’m just. It’s so… so nice.” Harry cringes at his words, even as they’re leaving his mouth, and he’s unsurprised when Malfoy’s eyes narrow.

“Always the tone of surprise, Potter,” he says brusquely. “Besides, she’ll be eaten alive if she hitchhikes in those leggings.”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “So you really want to come with me? Give hitchhiking another go?”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on you, and it might as well be me.” He buttons up his jacket, smoothing his hands down the fabric. “Besides, you’re far too reckless to be left on your own—you’ll end up getting abducted, robbed, and murdered all before supper, and I’ll never be able to live with that on my conscience,” he says, bending down to grab the small handle of his suitcase before turning to walk away.

Harry’s temporarily frozen to the spot, watching Malfoy stride away with effortless confidence, still a bit wrong-footed by Malfoy’s display of kindness and his apparent desire to keep Harry company. It’s only as he disappears through the automatic doors and out into the night that Harry remembers to follow him. 

“For the record,” Harry says, as he pulls up alongside Malfoy, tugging his jacket more tightly around himself and stuffing his hands into his pockets, “out of the two of us, it’s you who’s actually managed to get yourself abducted on your very first hitchhiking attempt.”

Draco sighs. “And I’ve learnt from my mistakes, and thus grown as a person, whereas you, on the other hand, are still a liability.”

“Whatever, Malfoy.” Harry snorts, but when he sees the corners of Malfoy’s lips twitch, it turns into a proper laugh. His stomach flutters, anticipation humming through his veins, making his skin tingle. Malfoy came back for him. Malfoy wants to travel across America _with him_. It shouldn’t matter, but it really, really does.

“I don’t suppose you have a plan?” Malfoy asks once Harry’s laughter subsides.

“Of course not. Where’s the fun in that?” He grins at Malfoy’s exaggerated eye roll.

“Gryffindors,” Malfoy mutters. He secures his scarf more tightly around his neck then appears to pick a direction at random and starts walking off without checking to see if Harry is following. “Come along, then, Potter,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Before we continue on this… _adventure_ , I need a hot meal, a shower, and a good night’s sleep.”

Harry shakes himself and jogs to catch up, wistful thoughts of home slipping to the wayside as he thinks about the upcoming adventure. Not even a month ago, the thought of hitchhiking across America with Malfoy would have filled him with dread, now his whole body thrums with an excitement he’s not felt in a long time.

* * *

They ended up staying the night in the first place they came across because they were both too exhausted to look for anywhere better, but then they were at the side of the road, thumb out, coffee in hand before six-thirty because Malfoy had been woken up at stupid o’clock by something ‘scuttling’. Harry’s fairly certain he dreamt it, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’d banged on the door of Harry’s room before the sun was even up because he refused to spend another second in a ‘vermin-infested pit of disease’. So, yeah. It wasn’t the best night but at least it meant they were on the road early.

The truck drops them off at a motel just outside of Memphis in the early evening. Harry considers suggesting to Malfoy they find another ride since it’s still early-ish and they _could_ push on a little further—they’d be in Oklahoma already if Malfoy hadn’t got them kicked out of Gary’s car—but in the end, he decides he can’t be arsed. He vows instead to push harder on the next leg and make up the distance then. 

Harry yawns, his jaw cracking, as he steps into their motel room and pauses when his eyes land on the solitary double bed taking up most of the floor space. Malfoy had insisted on them sharing a room again ( _”Have you seen the locals, Potter? They look ready to pounce! And what if there are more… creatures?”_ ) and Harry had agreed on the assumption it would be a twin room but Malfoy had clearly neglected to specify that they needed two beds. Still. A bed’s a bed. Shrugging off any concerns he has about sharing with Malfoy, he tosses his bag to the side of the bed furthest from the window and flops face first onto the musty sheets. He’s tired, but it’s too early to sleep. His head is buzzing from all the coffee he’s consumed in a bid to stay alert enough to fend off any more nutters, and his ears are ringing from the white noise of tyres on tarmac and the twanging banjos from the bluegrass music the last guy played for hours on end. 

He hears Malfoy drag his suitcase across the threshold and sniff dramatically. 

“Well. This is… cosy.”

It’s actually not much smaller than the room they shared with Gary and Mary Ann on the first night, but the lone bed in the centre of the room sort of… draws the eye and makes it feel like the walls are closing in. “At least there’s just the two of us this time,” Harry replies without lifting his head from the pillow. He feels like his whole body is tingling, demanding that he get up and move around, but his brain is screaming out for him to rest.

Malfoy hums in reluctant agreement. “You don’t think that woman will break in while we’re sleeping, do you?”

“Who?”

“You _know_ who— the receptionist. She was…looking at us funny. Well, probably you, actually, since you look like you got dressed with your eyes shut then brushed your hair with a twig. And honestly, Potter, when’s the last time you shaved, or even showered! You’d think you’d have bothered to learn at least one wandless grooming or hygiene charm.”

“Wow, thanks, Malfoy. Maybe if _someone_ hadn’t woken me up at some ridiculous hour because they thought they heard something—” 

“I _did_ hear something—”

He rolls his eyes, and then because he can’t help himself, decides to poke Malfoy a little more. It’s not like he has anything better to do. “You realise that receptionist was only looking at us funny because she thinks we’re fucking—why else do you think she specifically gave us a room with only one bed? She might break in just to watch us… you know...” He sits up, waggling his eyebrows and pokes the finger of one hand into his closed fist.

Malfoy gags, “Circe, Potter. Must you always be so vulgar? Anyway, it’s your turn for the floor, don’t forget. I’m not sharing a bed with someone who lacks basic hygiene. You have my word that I’ll slice off any part of your body that strays onto my bed tonight.”

“Don’t piss your frilly knickers about it, Malfoy. I’ll take the floor if you’re that upset about sharing with me. Your virtue is safe.” 

Malfoy tuts but otherwise ignores him as he goes through the pointless task of unpacking his suitcase (they’re staying one night, for fuck’s sake, can’t he live out of a suitcase like every other person ever?). The silence stretches in from awkward to uncomfortable, and Harry’s eyelids start to drift closed, but then Malfoy speaks, his voice a low rumble at the edge of Harry’s consciousness as he chunters on about something inconsequential until…

“Merlin, why would anyone think you and I would shag. Ugh. I think I’d rather shag Granger. Can you imagine the horror?”

Harry is instantly alert and sits bolt upright. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The sudden rush of anger he feels at Malfoy’s words taking him completely by surprise, and Malfoy too, judging by his stunned expression. “Because she’s Muggleborn? I thought you were over that pure-blood bollocks,” he says, disbelief lacing his words. He thought Malfoy had changed. He was even beginning to consider Malfoy a _friend._ How could he have been so stupid? How— 

“No! Merlin, Potter. You really think I’m still like that? What, is this all part of your ongoing scheme to uncover some nefarious plot against Muggles you think I’m perpetrating? I meant because I’m gay, you idiot. And the last time I checked, Granger wasn’t in possession of the correct genitalia. Honestly. You’re always so quick to think the worst of me. I thought... I thought we’d moved on from that.” He turns his back on Harry, his movements stiff and jerky as he roots around in the bottom of his suitcase.

The anger seeps from Harry as fast as it had arisen, replaced by guilt at his overreaction. “Can you blame me?” he says, sinking back onto the pillows, his arms wrapped around his chest. “It’s not like you don’t have previous. And I was right in sixth year. Everyone always conveniently forgets that.”

“Yes, I was a shit, in school. A murderous, racist, blood supremacist shit. I’m not proud of it, and I live with the guilt of my actions every day, but I’ve moved on, grown up.” He glances at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “You should try it sometime.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue because _obviously_ he’s changed since school, for fuck’s sake, but he’s tired, and he wants a beer—or something stronger—and then he wants to sleep. “Sorry,” he mumbles, barely loud enough to be heard over the traffic rumbling by outside the window.

He doesn’t know if Malfoy is ignoring him or genuinely doesn’t hear him, but he stalks into the bathroom, a small bundle tucked under his arm, without another word. 

Harry hears the toilet flush, then after a brief pause, the shower starts up with a clunking of pipes and low hiss. He flops back down onto the bed and tugs at his hair, huffing out an exasperated breath. He hates that Malfoy can rile him up without even trying and he hates that Malfoy was right—he’s so quick to think the worst of him, even now. Has he really not moved on since school? His stomach rumbles loudly, reminding him he hasn’t eaten since they’d stopped for petrol about three hours ago, and even then it had only been a packet of crisps and a chocolate bar. _Fuck this._ He remembers seeing a convenience store just before they pulled into the motel car park and it’s calling to him.

* * *

Malfoy is still in the bathroom when Harry arrives back at the room, so he kicks his trainers off and dumps the bags on the bed. He’s just beginning to think he should break the door down and check whether or not Malfoy has dissolved when he emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of fragrant steam. His skin is flushed pink from the heat of the water, and his damp hair is combed back off his forehead, reminding Harry of how he used to look when they’d started school. It looks softer now, though—less severe—and the natural wave is already making itself known as it dries. It isn’t his hair that’s so surprising though; it’s the loose, grey hoodie Malfoy’s slipped on, matched with a pair of black jogging bottoms. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen him wearing something so relaxed, so Muggle (other than the Speedos, the image of which is permanently etched into Harry’s brain) and for a few long, tense seconds, Harry is unable to do anything but stare.

“What’s that?” Malfoy asks, nodding at the pile of over-stuffed carrier bags sitting on the foot of the bed. His expression is guarded and Harry already misses the easy banter they’d fallen into before their argument. 

“Oh, um. Peace offering?” Harry explains.

Malfoy pauses in putting his toiletries away long enough to quirk an eyebrow at him. 

“I don’t fancy eating out anywhere tonight,” Harry continues, “so I just grabbed a few bits from the shop ‘round the corner. You can go out if you prefer, obviously, but I got enough for us both, so feel free to dig in.”

Malfoy leans over the bags, pulling the plastic of one of them aside with a delicate finger and peering inside. His eyes widen with surprise and Harry grins, knowing which bag it is.

“You’re planning a party?” Malfoy says, straightening up. It looks like he’s going for stern, but Harry can see his lips twitching in suppressed amusement. Maybe the tentative almost-friendship that had started to bloom between them earlier is salvageable.

“I don’t know about you, but after the last couple of days, I could do with a drink.”

“There’s slightly more than ‘a drink’ here.”

“Yeah, but what can you do?” Harry grabs a can out of one of the bags and cracks it open, closing his eyes in anticipation of the first cool, bitter mouthful. “I didn’t want to run out.” 

“But how did you even buy it? We’re not of age according to these ridiculous Muggles. And that’s not a slight on Muggles, before you get your knickers in a twist, just their age restrictions.”

“Uhh…” Harry presses his lips together and feigns interest in small notepad by the phone. “I may have Confunded the cashier. Just a little bit,” he adds in a rush. At Malfoy’s scandalised look, he feels the need to defend himself, because, yeah, it’s probably not the best thing he’s done, but… “It’s not a big deal! I mean, I don’t have an ID anyway, so it would have been necessary even if I was old enough. Which I am in almost every other country except this one, so it’s not like it’s that bad.”

“You did this wandlessly?”

“Obviously. My wand’s still broken, last I checked.”

Malfoy shakes his head and huffs out a breathy, humourless laugh. “You really have no idea…” he says, his voice a low rumble.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You wandlessly cast a _Confundus_ on a Muggle so you could buy alcohol while underage…”

“Well of course if you put it like that, I agree it doesn’t sound…good…” He shrugs, unable to think up an adequate defence (because there is none, his brain helpfully supplies).

“You did at least pay for it, I hope? This doesn’t mark the beginnings of your career as an outlaw?”

“Of course I paid for it! For fuck’s sake. If you’re gonna be such an arse about it, don’t drink it.”

“Don’t be so hasty! I suppose someone has to help you finish it or we’ll only have to lug it around in our baggage tomorrow.”

Harry barks out a laugh and chucks him a can of beer which Malfoy deftly snatches out of the air. Things are starting to look up, at least, for the time being.

“I do have one question though,” Malfoy says after opening his can and taking a large swig. “How have you learnt to wandlessly cast a _Confundus_ and yet a simple _Scourgify_ or a little personal grooming charm—of which there are a plethora to choose between—is beyond you?”

“I…” Harry pauses, and tries to think up a reason, but… “Not as fun,” he says with a shrug, and then bursts out laughing at Malfoy’s scandalised expression.

* * *

“You’ve seriously never shotgunned a beer before?” Harry stares at Malfoy, completely aghast. He’s just finished his third can, and is starting to feel soft and giggly, but Malfoy is trailing behind, still nursing his second, so Harry’d suggested shotgunning as a quick way to get Malfoy on the same level as him.

When Harry had been filling his shopping basket with booze earlier, he was sure the evening would rapidly devolve into all-out war once they started drinking. Surprisingly, though, it had been a good night so far, with the alcohol smoothing out their rough edges and helping the conversation to flow more naturally rather than making things worse. The sniping and bickering was still there, but there was no harmful intent to it.

“Clearly I missed out on gaining an important life skill when I didn’t return for my eighth year,” Malfoy drawls, taking the proffered can from Harry. “Go on then, teach me, oh wise one. Guide me in the art of irresponsible drinking.”

“Fuck off, you knob,” Harry says around a broad grin. “Right, so first you hold the can like so, got it? Yep. Then make a hole like I showed you…yeah, like that. Okay, okay. Now carefully—CAREFULLY!” Beer dribbles out of the hole as Malfoy turns it upright. Harry reaches over and grabs the can off him before it can piss any more beer over the floor, then seals his lips over the hole, but he’s unable to stop it dribbling down his chin.

“The sheets, Potter! You’re soiling the sheets!” Malfoy yelps through laughter, “Merlin, they might actually be forced to wash them now. What have you done!?” He throws himself backwards onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh and Harry tosses the now-empty can at Malfoy’s head, laughing as Malfoy effortlessly bats it back at him. It’s just like being back in his dorm with Blaise, getting silly while sharing a bottle of illicit Firewhisky and Harry feels suddenly nostalgic.

* * *

Half an hour later and they’ve moved on from irresponsible drinking, to sitting opposite each other, cross-legged, on the bed, and sharing stories about mutual friends. Malfoy had swapped to spirits after a couple of failed attempts at shotgunning beers, claiming the bubbles were making him bloated, although he seems to be coping fine with the bubbles in his rum and coke.

“Let me get this straight, Blaise told you he, Pansy, and Theo did—” He makes a crude gesture with his hands “—in our bathroom? In fifth year?” Malfoy tips his head back and laughs, exposing his pale neck.

Harry stares, entranced by this new, open and giggly and delightfully flushed version of Malfoy before he remembers himself and stutters out a response. “Yeah? Why? Is it not true?”

“True!? In fifth year, Blaise was such a mummy’s boy he couldn’t even wipe his arse without writing home first. There is no way he’d be getting up to _that_ with Pansy, although it wasn’t for lack of trying on her part.”

“Oh my god. I’m gonna give Blaise so much shit. I can’t believe he lied! He made it sound like you Slytherins were all bed-hopping sex-addicts.”

“Oh no, that’s quite true. We were, and probably still are, a bunch of sex-hungry animals, but little Blaise was still a blushing virgin, untouched by another’s hands, until at least halfway through sixth year when dear Millie gave him a blow job in that alcove by Snape’s old office.”

Harry chokes out a laugh. “Seriously? So he never did anything with Pansy and Nott?”

“I wouldn’t say that… He certainly wasted no time making up for all the missed opportunities after the, um… dam had been breached, shall we say.”

“Okay, that at least sounds more like the Blaise I know and love.” 

Malfoy stiffens, the motion so subtle that Harry would have missed it were he not watching him so intently, and then tilts his head. The levity of seconds before slips from his face, hardening his features as he looks at Harry. “You two are… close?” he asks, his brows knitting together.

Harry is so thrown by the sudden change in Malfoy’s demeanour that he doesn’t immediately understand what he’s asking. Of course he and Blaise are close. Had it not been evident from all the stories he’d spent the last day regaling Malfoy with? Unless he thinks… oh, no. “Not like that!” Harry cries as understanding dawns. It’s not that he wouldn’t go there, but they never had, and for some reason, he feels it’s important that Malfoy knows this. 

“We hung out a lot in eighth year, that’s all,” Harry continues. “He was the only Slytherin that returned, and my best friends were off shagging their grief away the whole time, so we just… sort of found each other.”

Malfoy relaxes his grip on his drink and smirks, leaning back on one arm. “Ahh, the classic boy meets boy fairytale. Two lonely souls—”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Harry laughs and chucks a pillow at his face, which Malfoy neatly snatches from the air and stuffs into his lap, a wide, easy grin splitting his face in half.

* * *

Harry’s not sure when it happened—sometime between the sixth and seventh drink, he thinks—but at some point, they had gone from sitting opposite each other on the bed to laying down side-by-side. A ceiling fan spins lazily above them, its slow movements hypnotic, and Harry stares at it, mesmerised. He can’t work out if it’s spinning in time with his breathing or if he’s adjusted his breathing to match the fan. Malfoy had insisted they turn it on to get some air circulating after Harry had farted—which was totally not his fault because beer makes him gassy and Malfoy had made him laugh—but it’s moving far too slowly to be having any real effect. He’s definitely beyond tipsy now, he thinks hazily, but he doesn’t feel properly pissed; just warm, safe, comfortable. Malfoy is still wearing that soft, grey hoodie and Harry can feel the heat from his body even though they’re not touching. He’s so quiet, Harry’s sure he must have dropped off, but Harry’s not ready for the night to end yet.

“Hey,” Harry starts, keeping his gaze pinned to the ceiling fan. “Do you ever wonder why we still call each other Potter and Malfoy?” 

Malfoy shifts beside him. “Is that not your name? Or did you get married without me noticing?”

“Fuck off! Of course I bloody didn’t. No plans either, before you ask.” Harry tilts his head to meet Malfoy’s gaze, but he’s frowning up at the ceiling.

“Oh dear, the she-weasel must be beside herself.” 

Harry lets the slight against Ginny slide. “I think she’d be more concerned if we _did_ marry since we broke up ages ago.” 

“Really?” Malfoy turns to look at him, genuine surprise on his face. How had he not known about their break-up? It had been splashed across the front page of every single wizarding publication, including the Quibbler.

“Yes! What? Did you think I’d just fucked off to America for the year and left her back in England?”

“I’m never sure what to think with you, Potter.”

“Er, thanks? I think?” He laughs, the thought of Malfoy spending any time thinking about him making him suddenly feel too hot. “Go on then, don’t avoid the question. Why are we still Potter and Malfoy? Why not Harry and Draco?”

Malfoy looks back up to the ceiling. Harry can only see his profile, but he looks deep in thought, wistful, almost. Harry stares at his profile while he waits for an answer. He’s never noticed before, but Malfoy has a small freckle, or mole perhaps, beneath his right eye. “Honestly, I don’t know. We’ve not exactly been friendly, though. That’s probably a large part.”

“We’re friendly now though, right? At least, I think we are,” Harry replies, his eyes still caught on that tiny imperfection in Malfoy’s skin. Has anyone else ever been close enough, or paid enough attention to see it?

Malfoy rolls his head to the side, removing the freckle from Harry’s view, but pinning him in place with a sharp-eyed stare. Their bodies aren’t touching, but there’s very little distance between them. They exchange a lingering look and Harry’s not sure if he remembers how to draw breath, he’s so captivated by those silver eyes. He’s forgotten all about the question he asked, forgotten he’s still waiting for a reply, so it startles him when Malfoy eventually speaks. “Yes, I… I think so.”

A heavy silence falls between them. It feels loaded, but Harry wonders if it’s just him. Silver has darkened into a stormy grey—a trick of the light?—and Harry can’t look away. He can feel Malfoy’s slow, measured breaths on his face. He wants to reach out, brush the hair off of Malfoy’s forehead, smooth a thumb across his cheekbone, tug on the strings of his hoodie. A flash of movement; Malfoy’s tongue wetting his lower lip. Harry follows the pink, wet tip with his eyes. He sucks his own lower lip into his mouth and bites down, hard. His hand twitches with the urge to touch, but even in his inebriated state, he knows that would be a very, very bad idea, no matter that it looks like Malfoy might not be so against it as he’d previously thought. Maybe he could just— 

“Oh, bloody fuck!” Malfoy sits bolt upright and looks at Harry with wide panicked eyes. “I forgot to call Chad!”

Great. The boyfriend. Harry’s stomach churns, agitating the beer he’s spent all afternoon drinking. He watches sullenly as Malfoy slides to the edge of the bed and starts faffing about with the phone to get an outside line. He knows he’s being childish, and it is his own fault for temporarily forgetting that anyone outside their room existed, but he was enjoying hanging out with Malfoy, and now it’s all ruined.

He slinks off for a piss, a frustrated wank, and a shower, and by the time he’s done, Malfoy is sat on the bed with his knees hugged to his chest and the phone pressed to his ear. He doesn’t even glance up as Harry chucks his toiletries and dirty pants into the corner of the room, and why would he? Clearly, whatever Harry had felt stirring in the air between them earlier had been all in his head. Not that he wanted anything to happen between them, because there’s no way it wouldn’t be a disaster of apocalyptic proportions, but he is _desperate_ and any port in a storm, as they say… and Malfoy might be an arsehole, but he is a very pretty arsehole, so yes, it would be a disaster, but it would be glorious. 

Harry paces the room as he towels his hair dry. He’s trying to ignore Malfoy’s conversation, but it’s impossible to block it out. The more he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care what Malfoy is talking about, the harder it is to stop listening. He snatches up one of the well-thumbed leaflets on the sideboard and sits heavily on the end of the bed. It’s for a nearby national park—apparently he’ll _Go nuts for [their] squirrels!_ Unlikely—but he doesn’t really take anything in. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything other than the sickeningly soft conversation Malfoy is having. Harry can tell he’s trying to be quiet, but the lower his voice drops, the more Harry’s ears strain to listen.

“I don’t see why it’s a problem, Chad. I’m perfectly safe,” Malfoy says. His voice has that hard edge it gets when he’s pissed off and Harry’s interest is piqued. He pauses mid-flick through of a battered magazine so he can hear better.

“I’m not completely helpless, you know. I managed to survive eighteen years and a fucking war without you mollycoddling me—”

Harry hastily glances back down at the magazine, his ears burning, when Malfoy looks around. It sounds like trouble, and he tries not to feel so excited by the prospect of Malfoy telling Chad to fuck off and then use Harry as a shoulder to cry on, but then…

“I’m sorry too… I know… I love you.” And just like that, Harry’s hopes are dashed. There’ll be no swooping in to save Malfoy from heartbreak tonight.

Malfoy’s responses descend into murmured pet names and kissy noises, and Harry can’t take any more. He lets the crumpled magazine drop to the floor and stalks out of the room with a mumbled, “Going out, back later.” He doesn’t know or care if Malfoy hears him.

* * *

Harry regrets his decision to leave the room as soon as he leaves the relative shelter of the walkway and is blasted by an ice cold gust of wind. He’s far too stubborn to turn back, though. He’d rather freeze a couple of fingers off rather than listen to any more sappy mumbling from sodding Malfoy. He wandlessly casts a warming charm, but it isn’t strong enough to completely fend off the chill. The air feels sharp, stinging his eyes and biting at his nose on each breath, threatening snow and he glares up at the sky, daring it to piss him off further; if it snows and he gets stuck at this motel with nothing but Malfoy and a half-eaten bag of snacks, he’s going to murder someone (probably Malfoy).

Before stepping outside, he had intended to walk around the block a few times, long enough to give Malfoy time to finish up his phone call, and hopefully go to bed, but it’s _fucking cold_ and a bar on the corner catches his eye. It looks warm and inviting, with neon lights advertising beers and sports, and colour posters in the windows. The door swings open, spilling noise and light into the freezing night air, and the thick, heavy aroma of tobacco, stale beer, and moist bodies assaults Harry’s senses. His feet are carrying him towards the entrance before he has any time to consider how wise it is to go out on the piss with limited funds but… one beer won’t hurt, he tells himself. 

The interior is dark—dark wooden furniture, dark furnishings, panelled walls overflowing with sports memorabilia—but there’s a cosiness to it that sends a pleasant shiver down Harry’s spine as the door swings shut behind him. Low hanging lamps provide little pools of light over the booths, but other than that, the bar is lit by neon signs and flickering TVs. It’s not busy, but there are a few interested glances in his direction. For the most part, though, everyone’s attention remains with their friends or on the various games being shown, so Harry navigates to the bar and hops up onto a stool without incident. He half expects to be ID’d, which would bring the night to a rather abrupt end, but the grizzled barman doesn’t even flinch when he orders a beer. 

The TV closest to him is showing an American football game and Harry watches the tiny padded people zip across the screen, up and down the field, tossing the ball around, but he’s not really paying much attention. He has no idea who’s winning, or even who’s playing—Trent would be horrified—but at least it’s distracting him from dwelling too much on what may or may not have almost happened earlier. He hates that he’s so pissed off at Malfoy. He shouldn’t care that he has a boyfriend. He _doesn’t_ care. Really. Why would he when he has Sure Thing lined up for when they get to Los Angeles—it’s the whole reason for his little jaunt across the States, for fuck’s sake! Okay, so it’s a little hard to picture how it’s going to play out since Blaise was so bloody mysterious about it in his emails, but he trusts Blaise not to set him up with anyone (too) dodgy. 

He orders a second beer, different from the first, and drinks it slowly, holding it in his mouth for a beat before swallowing to enjoy the way the bubbles tickle his tongue. A third beer appears just as he’s draining the last drops and he dips the bottle at the barman, mouthing ‘cheers’. He lets his alcohol-soaked thoughts drift to California. Sunshine, palm trees, pool, exposed skin, beautiful people everywhere. He imagines laying on a sun lounger with his mystery date, his Sure Thing. Their legs are entwined, sun-bronzed skin, oil-slicked and smooth. He imagines running his hand up a firm thigh, over the mound of their arse. The mental image flickers between male and female before he settles on male—he’ll be happy with whoever Blaise has set him up with, but his body is currently craving the touch of another man. He wants to feel the roughness of stubble scratching his neck; he wants large, strong hands holding him, guiding him. _Fuck!_ He trails his fingers up the hard planes of a firm, muscled chest, pausing to circle a nipple, leaning in to nip the pebbled nub. The skin beneath his fingertips pales as the fantasy person takes on a new shape; still male, but more slender, less defined musculature, but no less appealing. Harry’s mouth waters as his eyes skate up the naked flesh, taking in details, filling in others, but the face is still a blur topped with hair fading from a warm honey-blond to something cooler… something like—

A loud cheer cuts through Harry’s inappropriate fantasy and it takes him a couple of seconds to remember where he is. The faceless body lingers in his mind’s eye and he shakes his head to dislodge it. He downs the rest of his beer and silently prays that no one notices the giant stiffy he’s currently sporting. Merlin. What the fuck was that? The barman catches his eye and Harry smiles gratefully, nodding at the beer. In his relief, he leaves a larger tip than he would normally, ignoring the yammering little Hermione in his head that warns him he can’t afford it. She’ll shut up if he drinks enough, and he intends to do just that.

* * *

Harry has no idea what time it is when he stumbles back to the motel. He can barely see where he’s going. He thinks it must be fairly late since it was gone nine when he’d left Draco being all sickeningly in love on the phone to _Chad_. Ugh. What sort of name was that anyway? He sounds like an arse. He probably does sports and has an amazing body. And he’s probably clever too. There’s no way Draco is with anyone less than supermodel fit and Hermione smart. He feels like an idiot for even entertaining the idea that Draco possibly maybe fancied him. He’d probably imagined the electricity in the air between them as they lay side by side on his bed. He wouldn’t have done anything—probably—but he could have done without the reminder that Draco was in a loving, committed relationship while he, Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, couldn’t find a shag or an under-the-clothes grope from anyone.

He staggers to a halt in front of a red, scuffed door. _207_. It sounds vaguely familiar, but then so had the numbers of the last three doors he’d tried to open, much to the irritation of the occupants. There’s a gap in the curtains that is letting some light leach out into the walkway, but it’s not a big enough gap for Harry to peer through and scope out whether he’s got the right room this time—and there’s a dull part of his brain telling him that peeping into windows at a motel is a quick way to get himself arrested. 

The key slides into the lock on only the second attempt and he stumbles into the welcoming heat of the room, eager to get off his feet and close his eyes so everything will stop spinning. Draco is sitting up in bed with a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose and books spread out around him. He’s wearing a stripy blue pyjama top, now, that by rights should look ridiculous—Harry’s certain that his uncle Vernon had a pair exactly the same, if ten sizes larger—but somehow, the sight makes Harry’s knees weak. And those glasses—delicate, gold wire-framed things, nothing like the chunky black plastic frames of his own, which the optician assured him were fashionable. He’d been dimly aware that Draco wore glasses, and maybe he’d even seen him wearing them in the library or in class, but seeing them in such a relaxed, almost intimate setting lit a fire in his chest that he did not need right now. He’s suddenly accosted by hideously domestic images of him and Draco at fifty years old, sitting in bed together with their old man pyjamas, reading books or doing crosswords and sipping on hot cocoa, maybe with the wireless playing something bland in the background. 

It’s probably these images that make him utter the words, “Hi Sweetie, I’m back. Did you miss me?” as he trips over the welcome mat and narrowly avoids gouging out a chunk of flesh on the corner of the desk and giving himself a scar on the other side of his forehead. 

Malfoy snaps the book shut, a scowl marring his beautiful face. “I swear to the four founders, if you ever call me that again, I’ll make you wish you finished me off for good in that bathroom in sixth year.”

“Ooh, saucy,” Harry says, struck by uncontrollable giggles at Malfoy’s aggravated voice. He takes another couple of unsteady steps forward, and manages to catch the bed before it swerves out of reach, flopping forward onto the cool, white sheets. They smell like Hagrid’s coat but at least they’re soft.

He hears Malfoy chuntering in the background. “Merlin, Potter. Are you seriously going to sleep fully clothed? Where on Earth did you go? I thought you’d been kidnapped! Clearly, I needn’t have worried since—”

“Aww, Draco, you worried about me? Should ‘a come with ‘stead of talking to _Chad_. Fucking Chad. With his muscles. And his shiny hair.”

“What the— Potter, you’re drunk. Shut up.” He sounds amused. Or exasperated. Harry can’t tell. He nuzzles further into the soft sheets beneath him. 

Harry means to tell him he’s not drunk, thank you very much, but he doesn’t know if he manages to answer or not. He thinks his eyes might be closed and he’s dimly aware of something tugging at his feet, but then all his concerns drift away as something covers him, wrapping him in a comforting warmth as the sounds of the room fade away.

* * *

Something bulky lands on Harry’s face, yanking him from a vaguely unpleasant dream about American football, Fanged Frisbees, and professor Tabata. He struggles beneath it for a second, imagining for one brief, horrifying moment that Voldemort is trying to suffocate him under his musty cloak, but he manages to dislodge it—a pillow, it turns out—in the same instant that he tumbles to the floor. He untangles himself and leaps to his feet, one half of his broken wand in his hand as he scans the room for danger.

“Merlin, Potter. Keep your bloody hair on.” Malfoy shuffles back, his hands held up in defence. “Although what damage you think you can do with that useless stump is beyond me.”

Harry gapes at him, confused as to why Malfoy is standing in his dorm room, folding clothes as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to do when you’ve broken into someone’s room—had Trent let him in?—but then it all comes rushing back; the road trip, the motel, the bar… and oh sweet Merlin, the hangover. He squeezes his eyes shut and collapses back onto the mattress with a loud groan. “Fuck off, Malfoy.” 

He thinks suffocation—even by Voldemort’s underskirts—would actually be preferable to the pain lancing through his head right now. Even his eyelids hurt. _Fuck._

“My, my, my. Are we feeling a tad green around the gills this morning? Why ever could that be?” Harry can hear the smirk in his voice. How is he so fucking chirpy? Oh right… he wasn’t at the bar pounding shots with Willis or William or Wilfred or Wil-who-the-fuck-cares until stupid o’clock.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” he grunts again. Perhaps if he says it enough times it’ll come true. Merlin, but his mouth tastes like arse. He’ll gladly hand over the entire contents of his vaults if it can make a hangover potion or five materialise on the bedside table.

“You brought it on yourself. I have absolutely no sympathy for you.”

He cracks an eye to find Malfoy glaring smugly at him, a pair of lime green boxers in his hands. “It’s your fault I was out there in the first place,” Harry growls.

“My fault? I’m not the one who stormed out of here like a disgruntled hippogriff and then stumbled in several hours later reeking of alcohol, cigarettes, and cheap perfume. What, did you fancy sampling some of the locals before we move on?”

Harry scrubs a hand down his face. Is Malfoy pissed at him for _not_ eavesdropping? He’s definitely too close to death to put up with this shit. “You’d have preferred me to stick around in the room and listen to you make kissy noises to your boyfriend?” 

Draco pales. “I do not make ‘kissy noises’ on the telephone! Merlin, Potter. Are you five? Now hurry the fuck up, we needed to get back on the road by seven-thirty at the latest to stay on schedule and it’s already half-eight!”

Harry closes his eyes and he hears a thump as Malfoy dumps something heavy on the floor. He hears him rustling about for a minute or two and then there’s a short silence where Harry can practically feel Malfoy’s judgemental eyes boring into him. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. Make the bed once you’ve packed, okay?” Harry hears the bathroom door click shut and sighs in relief.

Unwilling to incur any further wrath, Harry slides from the bed after only a few minutes of wallowing. As much as he hates to admit it, Malfoy has a point; they need to get on the road as soon as possible if he stands a chance of getting to Los Angeles in time for Blaise’s party. He grabs the bed sheets and half-heartedly shakes them out so it looks like he’s at least attempted to make the bed. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens and Malfoy strides out looking like he’s fresh from one of Witch Weekly’s most eligible bachelor articles. It’s unfair that he can look so good when Harry feels like warmed over dragon shit and probably looks like a Dementor’s armpit.

“Come on, Potter. Chop chop. Based on how much distance we have left to travel and your unwavering desire to get there in two days, we need to get on the road as soon as possible if you want to be able to stop for the night. Have you any idea how much ground we’ve left to cover? I worked it all out last night after you abandoned me to get sloshed in a seedy bar.”

He may be fit, but at least he’s still a prick. “For fuck’s sake. You gonna let me piss first?” Harry mutters, chucking the last blanket on to the bed.

“If you must, but be quick.” 

A few minutes later with bladder relieved, teeth brushed, shoes on, and bag hastily packed, Malfoy bustles him out of the room. The cool morning air feels good against his skin, like a cold compress over his aching head, but he still feels like arse as he trudges after Malfoy wondering what fresh hell the day will bring.

* * *

It had been surprisingly easy to get a lift that morning, especially since according to Malfoy, Harry looked like he’d crawled arse first out of a grave (Harry can’t argue with that—it feels like a pretty accurate description). He spends most of the journey drifting in and out of sleep until the urge to vomit slowly ebbs away and a ravenous hunger steps in. Hank—who Harry feels he knows far too much about after listening to him chat for hours on end—takes them as far as Oklahoma. It’s still kind of early, and Harry knows they should try and go a bit further, but his stomach is fairly adamant that they pause for a hot meal, and this roadside diner looks as good a place as any.

After thanking Hank, Harry clambers down from the cab to join Malfoy in the car park. It’s already dark, but he can still see mounds of grey slush heaped up against the curb and lining the edges of the pavement, evidence of a recent snowfall. Oily puddles on the tarmac reflect the flashing neon red of the _OPEN 24HRS_ sign on the floor; it’s a little… rough around the edges, but the smells wafting out make Harry’s mouth water, and he can’t wait to get a big plate of greasy fries, crispy onion rings, a burger stacked high with bacon, cheese, pickles… 

“You want to grab a burger then head back out on the road?” Harry asks, stretching the cricks out of his neck and back. He tries to stifle a yawn, but it’s too powerful and takes over anyway, his jaw cracking and eyes watering as it rolls through him. He still feels a bit ropey, but he’s infinitely better than he was that morning, and a burger will set him right back to normal.

Malfoy makes a small noise of disgust. “No. I… I can’t. I can’t do it.”

“What?” Harry has already started devouring the burger in his mind, if Malfoy thinks they’re going anywhere without first eating their weight in fried food… “Look, if you want me to not die, I’m going to need to eat soon.”

“I’m not saying no to food, you idiot. I’m saying no to _here._ ” Malfoy says tightly, gesturing at the diner. “I refuse to eat any more sub-standard food! It’s not like we can’t afford to eat properly, so why do you insist on going to places like this? Do you have any idea what all this grease does to your skin?”

“Uh… it’s convenient?” He rubs a hand over his cheek. Does Malfoy think he has bad skin?

“Well, I’ve had enough. You can have your greasy convenience food, but I’m going to find something more palatable.”

* * *

Malfoy marches off in search of a restaurant deserving of his patronage, and Harry feels he has little option but to follow. His feet are throbbing, the blisters from their long walk to the bus station angrily making their presence known, and his lingering hangover giving one last push to make him truly miserable but he suffers without complaint (for the most part). Just as he’s about to sit down in the middle of the road in protest though, Malfoy comes to a decision.

The restaurant is warm and inviting, and Harry is pleasantly surprised by how normal it looks. He’d imagined Malfoy would choose the fanciest restaurant he could find, and he says as such while they wait to be seated.

“Look at you, Potter. I could hardly inflict your person on a proper establishment. Those sorts of places have dress codes and standards to uphold. They’d turn you away for sure, and by association, me. It would be utterly mortifying.”

Harry rolls his eyes. He’s too excited by the prospect of eating that garlic bread he can smell to take offence at Malfoy’s jibes right now. And to be fair, he’s got a point—a long day of napping in a truck hasn’t done much to improve his haggard appearance. He scratches a hand over his jaw grimacing at the rasp of three-day stubble beneath his nails. Yeah, he could definitely do with a shower and shave. 

The food is wonderful, and after three months of fast food and ramen, Harry’s taste buds are delighted by the explosion of flavour. His hangover, as predicted, makes a sharp exit as soon as he gets some food in him too, but what is more amazing is the ease at which he and Malfoy slip into friendly conversation. It probably has something to do with the ridiculously expensive wine Malfoy ordered—the name of which Harry can’t even begin to pronounce—but he hopes that maybe it’s because they really are friends now, not just ‘on their way to becoming friends.’ 

When he stands up from the table at the end of the meal, he lurches to the side, caught unaware by how drunk he is. Thankfully, Malfoy catches him before he can stumble face-first into someone’s dinner, and Harry beams up at him.

“There’s a surprise, the chosen one can’t handle his drink! How scandalous. Come on, you pisshead, I saw a hotel a bit further down the road and it almost meets my standards. Do you think you can walk that far?”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry says, elbowing him in the ribs with a grin as they stumble into the fresh air, dragging their luggage behind them. “You’re as rat-arsed as me, you pillock.”

The frigid air doesn’t bother Harry at all as he is full, happy, and deliciously pissed. At his side, Malfoy is monologuing about something he finds particularly outrageous, but Harry isn’t paying attention to his words. He’s mesmerised by the way his hair seems to glow in the moonlight, the way his eyes glimmer with amusement, the way he gestures wildly with his free hand as he talks, the motions becoming broader, more expressive as he works himself up. Malfoy catches his eye mid-rant and grins, and Harry’s stomach swoops. He feels dizzy, flushed, and he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with alcohol.

* * *

They’re a little giggly when they check in to the hotel Malfoy has selected. Harry gazes around with unconcealed wonder at the marble floors, the high ceiling, the gold detailing everywhere. The clerk—a smart looking man with close-cropped hair and piercing blue eyes—looks like he’s smothering a smile, and when he hands them the room key—just the one, Harry notes—he says “Have a good night, gentlemen,” with a purring voice and a look that makes Harry’s toes curl. He’s so horny right now. If they don’t make it to California soon he’s going to end up doing something ridiculous, like shagging Malfoy.

A porter takes their luggage and accompanies them up to their room, in an elevator as richly appointed as the lobby, and along a corridor with carpet so plush, it swallowed the noise of their footsteps. When Malfoy swings open the door to their room, Harry isn’t surprised at all to find there’s only one bed. It’s a very big bed, and it looks so soft and welcoming, and the pillows stacked artfully at one end practically demand to be burrowed into, but still, it’s just one bed. If Harry were the sort to read into things, he might assume Malfoy _wanted_ them to share.

Malfoy discreetly tips the porter and he slips out of the room with that same near-salacious smile the receptionist wore. Once the door clicks shut, a heavy silence falls between them as Malfoy begins his ‘unpacking the suitcase’ ritual, so Harry wanders around the room, opening drawers, peering inside the kettle, picking up brochures, just for something to do. After the ease of their interactions over dinner and on the walk to the hotel, the atmosphere in the room feels almost suffocating. 

“I thought we were going to get a bed each this time,” Harry says when the silence becomes unbearable.

Malfoy looks a little startled and smiles stiffly. “Yes, well, apparently all the twins were taken. Or Aiden just really wanted us to share.” He disappears into the bathroom with a stack of toiletries so Harry can’t see whether he’s pleased by this prospect or not.

“Who’s Aiden?” Harry says once Malfoy reemerges a few moments later.

“The man at the counter. You should know, you were staring at him enough—” 

“I was not staring!” 

Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him and Harry feels the need to protest again, but stops himself because he knows it’ll just make him sound pathetic… and maybe he had been staring a little bit, but it was only because Aiden’s teeth were so white and straight, and how was that even possible?

“What was it about him that tickled your fancy?” Malfoy continues, a hard edge to his voice that is at odds to his teasing words. “The sickly yellow waistcoat? The fake diamond earring? The charming southern drawl? He’ll probably come running if you click your fingers, you know.” 

Harry opens and shuts his mouth a few times. He wants to protest that he’d never hook up with a random stranger, but isn’t that what he’s going to California for? It feels like something Malfoy wouldn’t approve of though, which is probably why he’s neglected to mention the specifics of his visit. But what if Malfoy’s right? What if Aiden _is_ interested? Or is he interested in the both of them together…? Would he go along with it if that were the case…? If the heat curling in his gut and the fattening of his cock is any indication, then the answer is a resounding yes. He hurriedly turns away and feigns interest in the selection of teas and coffees on the sideboard lest Malfoy notice the flush on his face.

“So, uh, do you really think he’s interested?” 

“Merlin! It’s _your_ cock, Potter,” Malfoy sneers. “Feel free to stick it in whoever you want.” He brushes past Harry and sits heavily on the bed, grabbing the worn paperback he’d left on the bedside table and scooting back to nest among the mountain of pillows and cushions.

Harry frowns, a little taken aback by Malfoy’s snippy tone, especially since he was the one that brought it up in the first place. “I wouldn’t… I mean, it’s not like I’m going to do anything,” he mutters. “Just nice to know, you know?” 

Malfoy doesn’t respond, and when Harry looks at him, he’s glaring at the book in his lap as if it has personally offended him. Harry sighs, congratulating himself for managing to fuck up again. “I’ll take the floor this time, since I guess I passed out on the bed last night and missed my turn.” It’s a peace-offering. He’s glad he never mentioned the Sure Thing to Malfoy now, if this is how he reacts to the idea of casual sex.

“It’s fine, we can share the bed. You don’t have to take the floor.” Malfoy speaks so quietly, that if Harry hadn’t been looking at him, he might not have realised he spoke. As it is, he’s too surprised to do anything more than mutter a ‘thanks’ as he darts into the bathroom.

* * *

Harry sits on the bed facing Malfoy, his cards held close to his chest having quickly learnt that Malfoy is a shameless cheater. He takes another generous gulp of firewhisky straight from the bottle, grinning at Malfoy’s disgusted grimace, while he waits patiently for his turn.

Once Harry had come out of the shower, he’d turned on the telly purely to fill the silence, but then slowly the tension between them thawed as they each made comments about the show, and then Malfoy had produced a bottle of Firewhisky from the depths of his bag, waggled it enticingly in Harry’s face, and all of his promises to never drink again were quickly forgotten.

Malfoy is now loose and relaxed from the firewhisky, giggling like a first year at Harry’s attempts to teach him some simple Muggle card games. He sits with one knee hugged to his chest, the other leg dangling off the bed as he scrutinises his cards, and Harry can’t help wondering if this is what he’s like with Chad. Do they sit together in the evenings playing wizard chess? Do they talk long into the night, getting steadily more drunk? Does Malfoy laugh openly with him? “So how’d you and Chad meet anyway?” he asks, finally giving in to his curiosity after their fourth round of gin rummy.

Malfoy freezes and stares at him. “Why d’you care?”

Harry shrugs and slowly drags a fingernail across the edges of his hand of cards. The _clackclackclack_ of the cards catching on his nail is satisfyingly loud in the quiet that has descended on the room, so he does it another couple of times before answering. “You never talk about him, the mysterious boyfriend, you can’t blame me for being curious.”

From the funny look Malfoy gives him, Harry thinks he’s about to be told to piss off and mind his own business. He immediately wishes he could take the question back; he knows Malfoy doesn’t like him prying into his personal life. But then Malfoy replies. “His family own a small, organic dairy farm and creamery near to where my Mother and I moved after the…the war. We gave them a lot of business, and Chad and I became close. Once I graduate I’ll probably move to California permanently with him.”

Harry raises his eyebrows and tries to ignore the pain lancing through his chest at those words. “Oh, so it’s serious then?”

“I suppose.” He looks at his cards again, frowns then tosses one to the discard pile. “Your turn.”

“So…” Harry grabs a new card, glances at it, then discards it. “What’s he like?” 

Malfoy’s gaze flicks up to meet Harry’s, but his brows are pinched, his earlier relaxed demeanour vanished. Harry can see him starting to close himself off and he sighs inwardly—why was Malfoy so prickly about this? “You want to know what’s wrong with him because clearly he must be gone in the head to go out with me? Is that what you mean?”

Oh… “No! Of course I didn’t mean that, you idiot. Don’t be so sensitive! If you don’t want to answer the question, fine, but there’s no need to be a dick about it.”

Malfoy glares at him for a touch longer, his lips pursed. He exhales loudly and tosses his cards on the bed. “He’s… he’s a good man. Kind, generous, handsome. He’s American, so he doesn’t have the same hangups about my name or background, but no, before you ask, I’ve never hidden it from him. We like the same sort of things, so…”

“And you love him?” Harry’s not sure what prompted him to ask such an invasive question, what with how well Malfoy reacted to a far simpler question, and from the look on Malfoy’s face, he’s surprised by it too. Harry decides he lays the blame squarely on the firewhisky—maybe if he pretends to be more pissed, then the colour of Malfoy’s face will return to normal. He holds his breath and waits for the inevitable explosion…

“That’s none of your fucking business.” Malfoy’s eyes flash, but his voice held none of the venom Harry was expecting. 

Silence hangs over the room and Harry kicks himself for managing to ruin what had been an enjoyable evening. But honestly, was it so bad to ask someone questions about their partner? Ron was always talking about Hermione, and Blaise never shut up about whichever girl was flavour of the month/week/day so he’d assumed it was something people did. For fuck’s sake, he didn’t even _want_ to know anything about Chad, he was just making conversation.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” Malfoy mutters as he gets up and disappears into the bathroom.

Harry flops back onto the bed and lets out a frustrated growl. Sodding Malfoy.

* * *

Harry’s walking towards a pool. There are sun loungers and cabanas lining the deck. He’s been here before, several times, and each time the fantasy is a little more detailed, more fleshed out. There’s a breeze, just cool enough to temper the heat of the day, whispering through the palm fronds and creating dancing shadows on Harry’s skin. He glances down at himself, and the nakedness is less surprising than the toned muscles of his abdomen. In the distance, he sees the ocean, can hear the waves crashing on the shore, and soft music filters out from somewhere, but there are no people. Correction, no people other than that one, the Sure Thing, the fantasy he’s created whose appearance shifts and changes each night, each daydream. They’re standing beside the pool, their back to Harry. Bronzed skin glistening in the dappled sunlight. Long blond hair cascades over slender shoulders. The straps of a turquoise bikini so bright they seem to glow from within, perfectly contrasted against her skin. Harry reaches out to smooth his hand down her arm and she turns, a smile on her full lips that sets heat blooming in his groin. As he studies her face, blue eyes become steely grey; a small rounded nose elongates, becomes straighter; soft round cheeks hollow out, cheekbones becoming more striking; the jaw sharpens; blond hair lightens to platinum, shortens to a style Harry has recently become very familiar with.

“Potter,” says dream-Draco. “Blaise told me you were coming. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”

A grin spreads across Harry’s face unbidden as he wraps his arms around dream-Draco’s waist. “If he’d told me it was you, I’d have been here much sooner.” He leans in for a kiss, closing the distance between them, and when their lips meet, it’s like coming home. He slips both hands down Draco’s back, around the curve over his arse, and forces their groins together, growling into Draco’s mouth as their hips meet. Draco fists his hair, his grip verging on painful as he controls the kiss, tilting his head, licking into Harry’s mouth, and Harry gives himself up to it, the heat, the power, even the taste—especially the taste— of Draco, all over him. He can’t get enough. It’s good. So good. So wanted, so _needed_ — But… but it’s Draco. _Draco!_ He can’t do this. Harry pushes back, removes his hands from Draco’s arse, shoves him squarely in the chest. He stumbles back, losing balance, and he’s going to hit the water, and shit, he’s going to be so mad, and what was Harry thinking…? But suddenly there’s a cabana behind him, the kind that Harry’s only seen in Muggle films and TV programs, and Draco hits the cushion, sprawling seductively against its unspoilt, white surface, his hair fanning out around his head. His chest is heaving, his lips red and swollen, slick with spit—Harry’s spit—and his erection strains against that tight, black pair of Speedos that won’t give Harry a moment’s peace.

Harry’s mind blanks. Why is he even trying to resist? It’s pointless. Draco wants him, is spread out for him, begging for him. He reaches down and palms himself, grins. No more waiting, no more resisting. He crawls over Draco, straddling his hips, groaning as Draco arches up beneath him, and—

* * *

Harry’s squeezes his eyes shut, but as much as he tries to cling to the dream, desperate to claw it back, it drifts out of reach. It’s not the first time Malfoy has crept into his fantasies, but he’s never gone quite so far with him. This is clearly a sign they’ve been spending too much time together. His horny, sex-starved mind is fixating on anything with a pulse, and it just so happens that Malfoy was the last person he saw before sleeping, in addition to being unfairly fit, so it’s no wonder he had a starring role. He’s rather glad the dream never reached its logical conclusion, now he thinks about it, because there would be few things more embarrassing than coming in his pants while sharing a bed with the star of his latest fantasy. It was such a vivid dream though, he can still feel Malfoy in his arms, his leg between Malfoy’s thighs, his achingly hard cock pressed against Malfoy’s hip…

He snaps his eyes open and is instantly confronted with a head full of pale blond hair right in front of his face. It takes a second to realise he is curled protectively around Malfoy, his arm slung across Malfoy’s chest, their legs entwined, but as soon as he does, he freezes. Panic immediately sets in. He needs to move, needs to put some space between them, _urgently_ needs to get his dick away from Malfoy’s body, but how can he disentangle himself without waking him up? He watches Malfoy’s chest expand and deflate with each breath as he slowly peels himself away, millimetre by millimetre, as he fights the desire to rock his hips forward. Malfoy’s breaths are deep and even… or they were until a few seconds ago. _Bollocks._ Beneath him, he feels Draco’s body tense as he slowly wakes up.

“I’m so sorry!” Harry splutters, fully releasing his hold on Draco and scooting backwards.

Malfoy sits upright, running a shaky hand through his hair. “It’s fine,” he mutters, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “It was obviously an accident. As if you’d intentionally spoon me.” He laughs weakly and shuffles to the edge of the bed without looking around. “Shower,” he mutters, as he flees into the bathroom. 

Harry watches the door slam shut and pulls the duvet over his face. Fuck. Had he felt Harry’s erection poking him in the side? He must have done. It’s no wonder he fled the room. He’s probably traumatised after waking up to find Harry humping his leg like a randy dog. Shit. The sooner they get to California, the better. 

He reaches beneath the duvet and curls a hand around his neglected cock, shuddering at the touch. Bashing one out—even as quick as he knows it’ll be—is probably not a good idea right now, though. Best to wait until the bathroom is free rather than risk traumatising Malfoy further. He huffs and tucks both his hands under the pillow to remove temptation.

* * *

Malfoy had barely looked at him after emerging from the shower, and Harry wanted to say something to break the tension and ease the awkwardness, but he could barely look at him either, so they packed in silence, they grabbed a quick coffee in silence, and then stood by the side of the road in silence.

Eventually, though, the awkwardness of the silence outweighs the awkwardness of acknowledging the spooning. 

“I’m sorry for… um. If I made you uncomfortable,” Harry says as they watch the early morning traffic speed by. His thumb’s already cold but it’s still early. There’s a chance they can still make it to the party if they snag a long-distance truck.

“Why would you have made me uncomfortable?” Malfoy doesn’t look around at him. They’ve been up an hour and Harry thinks they’ve made eye contact once, and that was by accident.

He sighs, resigning himself to the fact that Malfoy isn’t going to make things easier. “You know. The spooning?”

“Oh, that,” Malfoy says distractedly as if it hasn’t been hanging over their heads since they woke up. “It’s fine. Already forgotten.” He shoots Harry a weak smile—or, more accurately, shoots Harry’s shoulder a weak smile—before turning back to watch the road.

“So… we’re good?”

“Sure.”

And just like that, Harry feels he’s been relegated from friend right the way down to inconsequential acquaintance again and he has no idea how to go about fixing things. Because now he understands. He doesn’t just think Malfoy is ‘a bit fit’, no. The dream has lit a fire inside Harry and made him realise he doesn’t just want a quick shag with an easy stranger. He wants late night chats, and sappy phone calls, and drinking games, and he wants it with Malfoy. 

But Malfoy already has all that with his boyfriend, and worse, Malfoy doesn’t want or need Harry.

Harry’s so busy wallowing, he doesn’t even notice the huge truck pulling up just in front of them until the driver leans out of the window.

“Where’re you headed, boys?”

“LA,” Malfoy replies, approaching the truck.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day! Hop up and settle in, it’s going to be a long ride!”

The door opens, and Harry clambers up after Malfoy, watching his perfect arse disappear into the cab. Okay, so things between them were in the shitter, again, and Harry had to go and develop inconvenient _feelings_ , or whatever but at least it is almost over and then he can move on and try to put Malfoy out of his mind.

* * *

The cab of the truck smells like stale sweat and coffee, and there are empty snack wrappers, old magazines, and drinks bottles stuffed into every nook. Malfoy hadn’t bothered to conceal his sneer nor his reluctance to touch anything, and Harry had been convinced they’d get kicked out, but Phil, the driver, takes no offence and warmly introduced himself as he pulled away from the curb. Harry gets the impression he picks up hitchhikers a lot just so he has someone new to chat to. He offers them both the bunk in the back to sleep or hang out in, but Harry decides to stay up front. He tells himself it’s because he wants to keep Phil company, and not because he’s scared to fall asleep next to Malfoy in case he starts frotting against his leg (again) or because of the sharp look Malfoy sent him when he tried to follow him into the back.

“So, what’re you and your boy doing, hitch-hiking all the way across this fine land anyway?” Phil asks after a long, drawn-out discussion about all the dogs he’s ever met through his work.

Harry thinks about lying and saying he’s just visiting a friend; thinks about ignoring the assumption that he and Malfoy are something more than what they are—and he’d really like to know what it is about them that has people assuming this—but he likes Phil and something about him makes Harry want to be honest. Perhaps it the Arthur Weasley-ish twinkle in his eye that gives him a fatherly air which Harry doesn’t want to be responsible for dimming. 

He looks over his shoulder. Malfoy is curled up on the bunk in the back, using his jacket as a pillow, seemingly fast asleep. “We’re not…me and him, I mean, we’re not together. Just friends, I think.” His mind flashes back to those first painful minutes with Gary and Mary Ann, when Malfoy described them coldly as ‘distant acquaintances’ and hates that that seems a step up from where they are now. “Maybe not even that anymore,” he adds sullenly.

Phil raises his eyebrows and nods, his lips pressed together as if he’s holding back from offering an opinion. 

“He’s going to visit his boyfriend, and I’m… Well.” Harry reminds himself that this isn’t an overweight Arthur Weasley before he continues. “One of my best mates goes to UCLA and he’s set me up with someone. They’ve been away for a while—studying abroad or something—and they’re desperate for a shag, and apparently, they want me. A Sure Thing, he called them. All I have to do is show up in time for my mate’s party and I get a night of no-strings… you know. So, yeah, that’s basically why I’m going to California. For a shag.”

“Jeez, you really got a sure thing?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. The only problem is that the party is tomorrow night and I’m not sure I’m even going to make it because of the disaster of a journey we’ve had so far. So the whole thing has been a pointless waste of time and I should have just gone home to England to visit my family like I originally promised.” He stares at the dash, feeling his cheeks darken, waiting for Phil’s judgement. He hadn’t even realised the depth of his own feelings before the words spilt out of him, but it’s true—he feels awful for abandoning his friends and family in pursuit of a quick fuck. And now that’s unlikely to happen since as far as he knows, they’re still a good twenty-hour drive away, and that’s if they don’t stop. What the hell had he been thinking?

Phil laughs, a deep booming sound that resonates around the cab. Harry shoots another glance over his shoulder at Malfoy, but he still appears to be fast asleep. His face is relaxed and can’t help the smile forming on his lips. He likes Malfoy like this, without the pinched expression he wears most of the time, as if he is only just tolerating the idiots around him. He looks like this when he’s pissed-up too. Harry wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to see that side of Malfoy again. He looks back at Mike to find him watching him knowingly and the fond smile freezes on his lips.

“Don’t you worry about missing your party, buddy. I’ll get you there, no problem.” He grins and slaps Harry on the shoulder. “Can’t have you missing out on a sure thing. Why, I remember, back before I married my Elsie, I drove damn near 30 hours straight to get home to her in time for Christmas. It was the winter of 1985, and cold as anything I can remember…”

Harry listens to the story with mild horror, hoping that Phil doesn’t fall asleep and kill them. Although it would be a fitting end to this massive balls up of a journey if they were to end up at the bottom of a canyon in a ball of flames. He settles back into his seat, nodding and humming in the appropriate places, and debates whether or not to invite Malfoy to Blaise’s party (assuming they make it there in time). On the one hand, he wants to see Malfoy drunk and giggly and relaxed again, and Blaise would probably love to see him again too, but on the other hand, if Malfoy actually agreed to come (unlikely) he’d probably turn up with is boyfriend and Harry would be forced to watch them being all gross and kissy in person, which had to be a thousand times worse than listening to it over the phone. And does he really want Malfoy there when he’s supposed to be focusing on the Sure Thing? 

He tunes back into Phil’s story in time to hear about how he almost drove into the back of a school bus, and says a silent prayer that he and Malfoy actually survive the journey.

* * *

Harry clambers out of the cab, cheerfully waving bye to Phil as he leaps the last foot to the ground. Malfoy follows him out with much less grace, although considering he’s lugging that huge suitcase, that’s not too surprising. They’d made it. _Finally._ And with about an hour to spare.

“Have a good night, boys!” Phil shouts out of the window before he pulls away with a loud and unnecessary honk of his horn. Harry turns to Malfoy, a teasing comment on his lips about how he managed to stay quiet almost the whole journey, but then he catches sight of Malfoy’s stormy expression and the words catch in his throat. 

“Um, so…” Harry scratches a hand through his hair. He wishes Malfoy would give him some indication as to what he can do to fix things, but if anything, things between them have got even worse and he doesn’t have the first clue how he managed to turn Malfoy from coolly indifferent to frosty when they’d barely exchanged more than a few words in last two days. He’s still standing there though, which gives Harry a little hope that things are redeemable. “Blaise has invited me to this mixer thing, a party, I mean. Tonight. Do you maybe want to come?”

Malfoy curls up his lip. “No. I’m busy with Chad.”

“Oh, yeah, right, I forgot you’d probably want to do stuff with him.” He hadn’t forgotten him, not at all, but he was hoping that if he didn’t mention the boyfriend, he might cease to exist. “I guess you can bring him too. Blaise won’t mind.”

“I said I’m busy, Potter. Drop it.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Fine.” Malfoy grasps the handle of his suitcase. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but it really hasn’t. Have fun at your party,” he spits as he starts to walk away.

“Wait, Malfoy, did I do something to piss you off? Other than the whole ‘accidentally cuddling you while I was asleep’ thing, I mean.”

“What do you care? You’ve travelled all this way for an easy, no strings, fuck. You clearly have all the morals of a corrupt ministry official. Is that why you pretended to be nice to me? You were just trying to get your leg over? Well, I’m not going to stroke your precious little ego. ”

“Wh— what?”

“I heard you, Potter. I heard all about your ‘sure thing’, and it’s fine. I don’t care. It’s your cock and you can stick it where you want. But don’t try and drag me into your sex party games. I have a boyfriend. Fuck you.” He marches away and Merlin is Harry getting tired of that view. 

How is it possible that he manages to fuck up every single interaction they have?

* * *

The party, it turns out, is beach themed, which Blaise thoughtfully forgot to mention. That’s why Harry is standing in the corner of a crowded room full of inflatable palm trees, fake flower garlands, and sand, while clutching a hollowed out pineapple full of rum. The Hawaiian shirt Blaise lent him is thin, but the material clings uncomfortably to Harry’s sweaty skin. It’s not the first college party he’s been to, not by a long shot, but it seems bigger, louder, more intense. Blaise is in his element, and although Harry is thrilled to see him again, he’s finding it hard to relax and enjoy himself. He keeps replaying the last argument with Malfoy in his head. The way he’d looked as he’d stalked away; angry, but more than that—disappointed, maybe? He wonders what Malfoy is doing right now. Has Chad got him bent over his desk while he pounds into him? Is Malfoy screaming so loud, the neighbours are banging on the walls? Or maybe they’re done with shagging for the time being and are just lounging around in the nude—that’s what couples do, right?

“Harry, Harry, Harry. Why so glum? Have you not seen the party going on around you?”

Harry leans into Blaise’s comfortable one-armed embrace. “Sorry, it’s been a long, tiring few days.”

“And you coped admirably,” Blaise says with a smirk and a squeeze. He’d not been able to stop laughing when Harry had filled him on the details of his last few days after arriving just a couple of hours previously. “But come on now, cheer the fuck up. Can’t have you scaring off your date for the evening—they should be here any minute. I’ve some Pepper-Up in my room if you need it.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to it,” Harry says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Blaise doesn’t look convinced.

“Of course you’re looking forward to it. You’re getting a shag from my exceedingly attractive friend with no worry about an awkward morning after—what’s not to look forward to? Now pull your head out of your arse and stop moping. You’re bringing down my mood, and unlike you, I don’t have a Sure Thing so I actually have to put some effort into finding a warm body for the night.” Blaise claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, you mopey twat. Let’s go get refills.” He heads towards the bar and Harry downs his stupid pineapple drink as easily as one can down a drink in a hollowed out pineapple, before trailing after Blaise through the crowd. Malfoy is probably snuggled up with Chad and watching a movie, or something else sickeningly coupled up, Harry thinks morosely. He wishes he were doing something like that.

With their drinks replenished, Blaise once again disappears off to mingle. Harry can tell he’s getting a little exasperated with his mood, but he can’t shake it. He scans the crowd, wondering when this Sure Thing is going to show up, so he can get on with things, and that’s when he spots someone who could very easily turn the night around. It’s not Malfoy—who he definitely wasn’t looking for—but a tall, well-built man with fair skin and short dark brown hair wearing nothing but a sarong, flip flops, and a flower in his hair. Harry can’t see his face yet, but he’s already captivated, as are most of the people around him judging by the appraising looks. The dips on his lower back alone are enough to make Harry’s mouth water. He looks like every wank fantasy—the ones before Malfoy rocked up in his dreams and ruined everything—come to life. 

Harry watches the stranger over the top of his pineapple drink. The man is clearly looking for someone. A couple of girls approach him wearing nothing but bikinis and coy smiles, but he dismisses them and Harry’s interest is piqued further. He turns around, searching the room and Harry eagerly awaits a glimpse his face and chest (and what’s hiding beneath his sarong) because even though he’s not going to do anything, he sees nothing wrong with a bit of window shopping. But then…

“Theo Nott? What the ever-loving _fuck_?” Where were all these Slytherins coming from? 

Theo spots Harry and smirks, lifting up his drink in a silent toast, and doesn’t look remotely surprised to see him. In fact, he starts sauntering over, the drape of the sarong accentuating the sway of his hips as he walks. And was it really necessary to wear it so low? Harry can practically see the thatch of dark pubes at his groin. His eyes leave Harry’s, fixing on someone (something?) behind him, and the confident smirk morphs into a broad grin. Perhaps Harry wasn’t Theo’s intended target. Perhaps he’s been walking towards someone behind Harry this whole time, and Harry has made the mortifying mistake of assuming it was him. Merlin, someone needs to put him out of his misery immediately if that’s the case. 

Heart in his mouth, he looks around and finds Blaise at his shoulder.

“I see you’ve spotted your date for the evening,” Blaise whispers gleefully into his ear. And Harry wishes he knew how that man was constantly able to sneak up on him. “Ta daa!” he sings, sweeping his hands out in a flourish.

“My… Nott? Nott is the Sure Thing? The whole reason I’m here?” He looks between Blaise and Nott, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice because _Theo Nott?_ The Theo Nott he remembers from school was a scrawny boy with a face like a slapped arse, always lurking in the shadows while others were more vocal. How had he become this… this… Adonis?

Nott’s confident smile wavers slightly under Harry’s scrutiny.

Harry is struggling to speak. “But… How… Nott?” He’s travelled all this way, suffered through Malfoy’s company, almost got shot at, splinched, and arrested, all so he could shag Theodore bloody Nott?

“Hi, Harry. Long time no see,” Nott purrs in a low rumble, his lips dangerously close to caressing the shell of Harry’s ear, and despite himself, Harry feels desire pulse in his groin—traitorous dick. Whatever Theo has been up to since school, it clearly agrees with him, though. It’s all Harry can manage not to reach out and drag his fingers down the bumps of Nott’s unfairly well-defined chest, or lean forward and swipe his tongue over the pink pebbled nub of Nott’s left nipple (or right, he’s really not fussy).

“Nott, hi.” Harry shakes himself, tries to gather some of his wits together so he can stop gawping like a massive twat. “You’re looking… uh, well,” he offers. Despite travelling all this way with one purpose in mind, now that fulfilment of said purpose was imminent, he was a mess of nerves. Was he really going to sleep with Theo Nott? Did he want to?

“Well! I’ll just leave you two to get acquainted,” Blaise smirks, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Don’t forget to wrap it up before you stick it in!”

To his credit, Nott manages to look a little embarrassed. “Sorry about him. I take it you weren’t expecting me?” His voice is soft, kind. It rumbles over Harry, soothing some of Harry’s apprehension like a warm bath on sore muscles.

“Um…no, can’t say I was,” Harry laughs awkwardly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, but the stickiness from the pineapple on his fingers just makes him grimace. 

“Fuck Zabini. Let’s just get a drink for now, no pressure, okay?” 

“Yeah.” Harry releases a breath, feeling a little more tension slip away. “Yeah,” he says more firmly. “Sounds good.” 

Nott holds out his hand and Harry takes it, letting him take the lead as they wind through the crowded rooms in search of more booze. Harry can’t help thinking about Malfoy, though. What would he think if he saw Harry with Nott? Would he care at all? His mind drifts again back to imagining what Malfoy and Chad are up to and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth that even the sight of Nott’s arse can’t completely remove.

* * *

Harry shares a drink with Theo and tries to get to know the person he is now, rather than clinging onto vague impressions he has from their time at school, but while they get on surprisingly well, something just doesn’t feel right. He definitely fancies him, and he seems like a good guy these days, and as little as a week ago he’d have been all over that beautifully sculpted chest, but now… no matter how much he tries, he just can’t get Malfoy out of his head. And he knows that it’s ridiculous because Malfoy has Chad and doesn’t give a flying shit about Harry, but it feels wrong to pursue things with Theo—even knowing it’s just a one-night thing—when his brain is fixated on someone else.

“Sooo, I did good, right?” Blaise asks, popping up behind Harry as he tries to make his escape. “Theo is fit as fuck, isn’t he. You can thank me tomorrow; that’s if you can still remember your name after all the mind-blowing sex you’re going to have.” 

Harry shrinks back from Blaise’s lascivious grin. He had been hoping to get away without an interrogation, but he should have known Blaise would be waiting for details. “Yeah, he’s… nice. Very fit as fuck.”

“Harry, mate. Where’s your enthusiasm? Come on!”

“Sorry, just tired. I’m enthusiastic, see?” He plasters a grin on his face, and thankfully Blaise appears to accept it at face value.

“Good, because guys like Theo, they don’t stay single and interested for long. You’re one lucky fucker.” He punches Harry lightly in the arm and then looks around, brow furrowed. “Where is he anyway?”

“Oh, um…” He looks over at where he’d left Theo and can see he’s clearly found someone new to chat to in the ten minutes since Harry fled to the loo to get some space. He can’t see the man’s face, but that hair… there’s something familiar about it… but it can’t be… 

“Malfoy?” Harry splutters, narrowly avoiding dribbling bright red punch down his chin. He blinks a few times, but no, it’s definitely him, and he’s talking to Theo. _Shit._ What happened to being busy with Chad? Does he know Harry’s here? Had he come to the party _for_ Harry? To apologise, perhaps? What other reason could he have for turning up when he specifically said he was busy with Chad… unless… 

That’s when he notices the man with his arm around Malfoy’s waist. _Chad_. He’s nothing like what Harry expected. He’d imagined someone tall and imposing, ruggedly handsome, maybe a little older, sophisticated, because Malfoy would obviously never settle for anyone ordinary. This guy, though, looks kind of… normal, with his thick-rimmed glasses, wavy, dark brown hair, and a slightly crooked nose. He’s the sort of person Harry wouldn’t glance at twice if he passed him on the street. He looks thoroughly uncomfortable surrounded by drunk people in beachwear, though, and Harry almost feels sorry for him; that is, until he notices the disdainful eye he casts over Theo. Harry bristles, because who does this stuck up prick think he is?

Chad smooths a hand down Malfoy’s back, the simple action both intimate and possessive, and it sparks a surge of jealousy within Harry. He tries to ignore it, tries to tamp down his ugly feelings, because he has Theo, he doesn’t want Malfoy, but he can’t stop staring, and the longer he watches Chad fondle Malfoy’s belt loops the more the sick, heavy feeling inside him writhes and churns. 

_I don’t want or need Malfoy._ He tells himself. _It’s nothing but a silly infatuation inspired by proximity and desperation._

Spurred on by that thought, Harry’s feet are moving before he can stop himself and suddenly he’s at Theo’s side, one hand reached out in greeting toward Chad. “Hi, you must be Chad. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Harry.” He’s pleased to note a flicker of recognition in Chad’s face, and happier still to see Malfoy’s cheeks redden as Chad throws him a questioning glance. 

Harry slides an arm around Theo’s waist, tugging him closer. “You’ve met Theo, obviously,” he says, delighting in the look of astonishment on Malfoy’s face. “So I guess there’s no need for introductions.” 

“Hold on.” Malfoy glances between Harry and Theo, the surprise on his face slowly being overtaken by disbelief. “It’s Theo? Theo is the Sure Thing?”

“What’s a _Sure Thing_?” Chad asks, but Malfoy ignores him in favour of glaring at Theo.

Theo smirks and wraps a possessive arm around Harry, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “If someone said you had a chance with The Boy Who Lived, wouldn’t you take it too?” he says, and something unspoken passes between the two Slytherins.

Malfoy stiffens, his skin paling, and he draws back almost as if Theo had landed a physical blow. He recovers himself quickly enough, though. “Come on, Chad, darling,” he snaps, “I have a sudden urge to get blackout drunk.” He slips from Chad’s embrace and curls a hand around his wrist.

“But…you don’t drin—” Chad starts.

“Come along!” Malfoy snaps, and marches them over to the nearest table laden with drinks. He grabs a cup of violently red fruit punch that Harry knows is more alcohol than fruit and knocks it straight back while Chad looks on disapprovingly, his arms folded across his chest. 

Theo presses closer, muttering something in Harry’s ear. 

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Um, what?” Harry mumbles vaguely as Theo presses a kiss to his jaw. 

“You, me, dance. Yes?” Theo urges.

Harry knows he should refuse. He’s going to refuse. He’s not planning on doing anything with Theo—probably—so it would be wrong to lead him on too much. But then Malfoy drags Chad into the middle of the room, wraps his arms around his neck, and starts gyrating his hips loosely in time with the music and Harry’s mind is made up; he can’t have Malfoy and Chad show him and Theo up. And he knows what he wants now. He wants to make Malfoy jealous.

“Yeah, come on, let’s do this” Harry growls dragging Theo towards where Malfoy is dancing at a very stiff, confused-looking Chad.

The music thrums through Harry’s body as he moves to the beat as seductively as he can manage. It’s hard not to be affected by the way Theo is all over him, but for all that he looks like a pop star, he has the coordination of a left-footed hippogriff. He’s handsy too, slipping his hands over Harry’s arse, and beneath his shirt, touching and stroking and scratching. He just about manages to stay focused on putting on a show for Malfoy, keeping him in sight over Theo’s shoulder, and delighting in every pointed glance, but he can feel his neglected cock making its desire known, clouding his rational mind. 

The tempo of the song changes, or perhaps it’s a new song entirely. Theo slips his thigh between Harry’s legs and starts grinding against his hip. It’s a risky move in a sarong, Harry thinks absently, but it feels so, so good; Theo’s back is hot and smooth beneath Harry’s hands, and the sarong does absolutely nothing to disguise how aroused Theo is. Harry has only gone further than kissing with a couple of other guys and the feel of Theo’s thickening erection against his hip makes his knees weak with want. He feels his resolve weakening as he gets carried away. How bad would it be to sleep with Theo? He can’t even remember why he had decided against it now. He slides his hands up Theo’s back, enjoying the way he can feel the muscles flexing under his palms, and hooks his hands over his shoulders, hugging him tighter, closer, breathing in the strong, masculine scent of Theo’s warm skin—musky cologne, sweat, alcohol. It’s intoxicating. 

“We should take this somewhere more private,” Theo growls, and Harry snaps open his eyes, suddenly aware of where he is. His gaze instantly lands on Malfoy, who is staring at him unabashedly, his mouth hanging open. When he notices Harry looking, his face hardens, and suddenly Harry knows without a shadow of a doubt. He doesn’t want Theo, or anyone else; he doesn’t want to make Malfoy jealous. He wants Malfoy. _Draco_. The snarky shit of a man he’s accidentally fallen for, and who now looks like he’d happily incinerate Harry with his glare alone.

Harry matches the glare with one of his own, but the stalemate is broken when Chad grabs Malfoy by the hand and forcibly drags him out of the room. Were they going off to shag? Theo’s words suddenly make sense. If Draco is going to be off shagging, then so is he.

“Blaise said we can use his room,” Harry says and then leads Theo up the stairs. He pretends he doesn’t see Blaise’s excited thumbs up. He’s too busy trying to silence his inner-Hermione who is currently yelling at him to stop what he’s doing immediately.

* * *

Christmas with Blaise was a blur. Together they explored the local area, drank far too much, and acted just like a pair of nineteen-year-old wizards with no responsibilities should. On one day, Blaise took him to the magical quarter in Venice to get a new wand—Rowan, dragon heartstring—and on another, they hiked into the hills. They walked along the coast until it was too dark to see, then apparated back to Venice and spent the night drinking cocktails in Blaise’s favourite bar. They visited a theme park one day, then toured all the upscale shops Blaise was so fond of on another. It was fun, ridiculous, and completely unlike any Christmas Harry had ever experienced before, and it went a long way to helping him put Malfoy out of his mind.

He could never completely shake him from his head, though, and held on tightly to the hope that after a little space, Malfoy would open up and be more receptive to friendship. 

Except… Harry’s been back on campus three weeks now, and Malfoy has barely spoken two words to him. He seems determined to act like their adventure never happened; veering between ignoring Harry completely and being coldly polite, and it’s infuriating. Harry’s tried everything he can think of—approaching him when he’s alone, joining in when he’s having a conversation with their classmates, sitting next to him in the library. He’s even started swimming to try and increase the chances of Malfoy talking to him, but all that’s done is provide him with more fuel for his wank fantasies. Malfoy in Speedos should be illegal.

He tries to imagine what his friends back home would tell him to do. He neglected to mention anything about Malfoy or even Theo when he spoke to them over the break because he doubted Hermione would approve of his motives, and Ron would probably have a coronary if he knew Harry might have developed _feelings_ for Malfoy. He wishes someone would just tell him what to do, though. He’s tried talking to Trent, but his advice amounted to ‘fuck him or move on’, and Blaise was similarly unhelpful over email, telling him to stop obsessing and find someone who is single and actually likes him.

Out of desperation, Harry decides to Floo Hermione. He’s never been very good at working through problems on his own, and there’s no one else he can think of who he can be completely honest with, so after class on Friday, when everyone else is getting ready to go out or have fun, Harry hurries down to the magical communication centre so he can nab a fireplace before they’re all busy.

Harry eventually tracks Hermione down on her work Floo—he’d forgotten about the time difference in his eagerness to speak to her—but she quickly clears the small office of her colleagues when she sees it’s him. 

They exchange pleasantries for a short while, but Hermione’s expression soon turns serious when Harry’s small talk dries up.

“Harry?” She leans in towards the flames, hair almost completely obscuring the view of the room behind her. “Is everything okay? You know you can tell me anything,” she prompts, when he remains silent, tripping over the words in his head as he tries to work out what to say.

“I… I need some advice…” He slowly explains the failed tutoring session, the road trip, the party, the way Malfoy won’t even look at him now. He explains how Malfoy is different, how he’s changed, how he giggles when he’s drunk. He talks for so long that the Floo clerk taps on his shoulder and demands he pay for another session before she cuts him off. The whole time, Hermione listens patiently, keeping her face carefully blank until he mentions what he did with Theo Nott on the dance floor; that’s the only time a flicker of disappointment passes across her face.

“So…what should I do? I think I really like him.”

She takes a deep breath and purses her lips and it’s reassuring to see that she’s actually considering his problem rather than judging or dismissing his feelings. He wishes he could reach out from the flames and bury his face in her hair while she pets his head and makes soothing sounds.

“Oh, Harry. I’m almost afraid to ask, but have you tried talking to him?”

“Weren’t you listening? He won’t even look at me! How am I supposed to talk to him? You want me to stand outside his window with a boombox and announce my love to the entire world?”

“Love?”

 _Shit._ Had he said that? He didn’t mean that. Did he? “I…I didn’t mean…I don’t know. Maybe? Am I stupid?”

“No, of course not. You and he have always had a… an intense relationship.” She smiles, but it looks little pained.

“And you’re not mad?”

“I’m not going to lie and say I think he’s the best choice for you, especially since he already has a boyfriend and is refusing to acknowledge your existence,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But if you’re worried about my reaction because of his past actions, then… well. If you tell me he’s changed, I believe you.”

Harry wants to cry. Why did he spend all last semester avoiding contacting his friends? Part of him wants to ignore all the signs forbidding long distance Floo travel and chance his luck so he can get a hug and hang out with his best friends. At least if it all went to shit and he ended up as a soggy pile of mush on their rug, he wouldn’t have to spend any more time thinking about Malfoy… although Ron and Hermione probably wouldn’t appreciate their home getting stained by his innards.

He settles, instead, for a tight smile, a nod, and a promise to Floo more regularly, and then ends the call before Hermione can notice his watery eyes.

* * *

Harry tries to follow Hermione’s advice and just talk to Malfoy, but for that to be possible, he needs Malfoy to listen to him, and he won’t. Every time Harry approaches him, he walks the other way, or glares at Harry with such disdain that the words just dry up in his throat. Harry starts going to the cafeteria he knows Malfoy favours, and alters the route he takes between classes in the hope of increasing his chances of catching Malfoy off guard, but it seems Malfoy is never off guard. He’s even attached himself to a cliquey group of girls who literally _never_ leave him alone, both inside class and out, so Harry can never get close.

After another week of avoidance, Harry is sick of it. He gets up early one morning and sits outside his dorm block, and when he sees Malfoy strolling out to breakfast, he pounces. Ignoring the fact that he is, of course, with three of his friends.

“Malfoy, we need to talk.” Harry stands in front of him with his arms folded across his chest. He knows it’s rather confrontational, but he’s tried to be nice, and that didn’t work, so it’s time to be a Gryffindor instead.

“Not now, Potter. I’m busy,” Malfoy snaps. He tries to step around Harry, but Harry moves to block his path, ignoring the way the girls sneer at him. Has Malfoy been gossiping?

“Yes, now. I don’t care if you’re on your way to meet fucking Celestina Warbeck. We’re talking.”

“Who the fuck is—” One of the girls with him starts, but Malfoy shuts her up with a glare.

“Fine, Potter.” He rolls his eyes. “We can talk, if it stops you stalking me.” He dismisses his friends with a promise to catch them up later and then turns to glare imperiously at Harry. “Go on then. I don’t have all day.”

Harry is suddenly speechless. He looks down at the piece of paper folded in his hand. He’s had it on him for almost a month and it’s looking rather ragged from all the unfolding and folding he’s been doing to it. It’s a letter he wrote of things he wanted to say to Malfoy and he’s been adding to it any time he thinks of something else. He must have looked at it every day since first writing it, and the folds in the paper are weak and ragged from over-manipulation. Of course, he can’t remember a word of it now.

Malfoy huffs, pulling Harry’s attention away from the letter. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Potter, but I don’t have time for this. If you don’t stop harassing me and following me around, then I’m going to the dean.”

“Shit, no, just hear me out. Um...” Harry scrubs a hand down his face and he frantically tried to recall anything that he’s written. “Can you…could we…I thought…Maybe you could tutor me again?” It sounds weak to his own ears so it isn’t a surprise to see Malfoy’s face harden.

“How stupid do you think I am, Potter? I may have fallen for your ruse last time, but you might want to try for a little more originality if you want to trick me into spending time with you again.” He turns on his heel and starts marching towards the cafeteria after his friends and Harry panics. He can’t let Malfoy get away from him. He has to make him understand. Why is it so difficult?

“I miss you!” he blurts. And that works. Malfoy falters and turns back to face him, confusion and distrust etched across his face. Harry closes the distance so they can’t be overheard by the handful of students loitering nearby. “Don’t you miss what we had?” he asks, hating the way his voice cracks. He wants Malfoy to talk to him, not pity him.

Malfoy scoffs. “Miss what? Trying to sleep while you snore like a wounded erumpent? Watching you wear the same pair of socks for three days in a row? Listening to you witter on about Merlin knows what for hours on end? No. I can’t say I do.” He starts to turn away again and Harry lunges forwards to grab his sleeve before he can go anywhere.

“But—” 

Malfoy yanks his arm from Harry’s grasp. “How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off? If you’re lonely, call Theo. You two were looking very cosy last time I saw.” There are spots of colour high on his cheeks and nostrils are flared, but he doesn’t try and flee again. If anything, it feels like he’s standing closer; that inch or two he has over Harry being put to full use as he looms over him.

What the hell is Malfoy doing, bringing up Theo? Harry is torn between taking a step back and crowding in further. In the end, he does neither, standing his ground and clenching his hands into fists at his side so he doesn’t do anything regrettable—yet deeply satisfying—like throttling him or punching him square in his pretty face. “I don’t want Theo,” he grinds out. “Why do you have to be such an arse all the time? _Fuck._ ”

“I assure you the feeling’s mutual.” Malfoy sniffs, his expression cool. “I’m so glad we had this little chat.”

Harry grits his teeth and briefly closes his eyes as he draws in a steady breath. He’s not going to be able to say what he wants to say, not if Malfoy is determined to goad Harry into hexing his face off. 

“Here, just read this.” Harry thrusts the ragged note into Malfoys chest. “I fuck up every time I try to talk to you so… That’s what I wanted to say. Read it, throw it away, publish it in the student paper for a cheap laugh at my expense, I don’t care. I give up. This was a stupid idea.” 

He walks away without giving Malfoy a chance to reply. Embarrassment coils in his stomach, twisting and twining with the frustration and rage that have already settled there. He’d never meant for that letter to be read—it’s something he wrote to get his own thoughts in order and plan what to say, and it’s likely riddled with spelling mistakes and poor phrasing—but he really does hope that Malfoy reads it. If he still wants nothing to do with Harry afterwards, then he’ll respect Malfoy’s wishes and leave him alone, even though the thought of having fucked things up irreparably makes his insides curdle.

* * *

It has been a couple of weeks and still, Harry’s heard no word from Malfoy. He’s no idea whether he’s even read the letter, but at least it hasn’t been published or duplicated and plastered up around campus, so that has to be a positive sign. Of course, he could have just chucked it or burned it the second Harry’s back was turned, but he tries not to dwell on this likelihood.

Harry squints in the bright sunlight that falls across his face as he absently tosses the tennis ball back to Trent. They’ve been lying on their beds, throwing a ball back and forth for a while now, sometimes talking, but mostly quiet. He should probably be studying, but finals are far enough in the future that Harry feels no guilt about spending a Sunday doing absolutely nothing but mope. He thinks a lot about Malfoy, of course, the dull, persistent ache in the back of his mind. Both Hermione and Blaise advised him not to push things and he reluctantly agreed, but he isn’t happy about it. He thinks about Spring Break, which is fast approaching, and whether he should go home and be bombarded with questions, or stay on campus and feel sorry for himself. The change of scenery would probably do him good… but he’s still not sure he has the emotional strength to deal with his friends and their well-meaning interference in his life.

The ball comes hurtling back towards him and Harry snatches it out of the air just before it hits the wall behind his head. Trent laughs and mutters something under his breath. He’s long since given up trying to convince Harry to try out for the baseball team—apparently, Harry’s wasting his god-given skill—but that doesn’t stop him testing Harry’s reflexes every so often, as if to remind him of his opinion.

“You just need to get back out there, dude,” Trent says, catching the ball on a stretch. 

Harry snorts. “Yeah, yeah. I know, maybe soon. After finals.” It’s a common refrain. Trent doesn’t know all the details of Harry’s Christmas break, but he’s had to live with his sullen mood since the semester started up, so Harry doesn’t begrudge him his comments or the occasional prying question.

There’s a knock on the door before Trent can give his usual response—something along the lines of sexual frustration being bad for his concentration—and they exchange a look, each silently imploring the other to get off his bed and see who’s there. Harry briefly considers breaking the statute and using magic to show them who is on the other side before either one of them commits to announcing their presence, but his wand is tucked away in the back of his drawer and the effort to fish it out would be greater than the effort required to get up and look through the peephole.

There’s another knock. Louder this time, more insistent. Trent raises his eyebrows and shrugs as if to say he’s willing to wait out the intrusion on their lazy Sunday, and passing the door-opening responsibility on to Harry. 

“Potter! I know you’re in there!”

 _Malfoy._ And he sounds pissed off. Harry’s stomach crawls into his throat and he freezes in place, eyes locked on the door as if he can see through it if he just concentrates hard enough. But then the ball smacks him squarely on the forehead and breaks him from his trance.

“Just a second!” he shouts, to buy himself a few valuable seconds to compose himself. He scowls at Trent, who just grins and tucks his hands behind his head.

He slides off the bed, checks his appearance in the mirror, and quickly tries to smooth his hair down so it looks less slept-on. There not much he can do about the saggy t-shirt and ripped jeans though, so he grimaces at himself, sucks in a deep breath, and turns to open the door. 

“Hi, Malfoy,” he says, relieved when his voice doesn’t waver. He grips the edge of the door tightly with one hand and stuffs the other in his pocket to hide the faint tremble he can feel.

Malfoy narrows his eyes as he passes an assessing gaze over Harry. His clothes are neat, not a wrinkle in sight, but his face looks a little flushed and there’s a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead. _Did he run here?_ But no, he can’t have done, though, because he’s wearing loafers—without socks. People don’t run in loafers. Maybe he’s sick?

“Is it true?” he demands. His voice is tight, like he’s restraining himself, withholding his true feelings.

Harry frowns. “Is what true?” 

“This!” Malfoy thrusts a scrappy looking bit of paper at Harry’s chest and he grabs it without thinking. The second it’s in his hands, though, he knows without even looking that it’s the letter he gave Malfoy a couple of weeks ago.

“Oh…” He looks up, meeting Malfoy’s gaze head-on, daring him to dispute his next words. “Then, yes, every word is true.”

Malfoy surges forward, grips his shoulders and for a split second Harry thinks he’s about to nut him in the face, but then Malfoy’s lips are on his. Shock drops his mouth open, and Malfoy wastes no time in seeking entrance with his tongue. And then Harry’s head finally kicks into gear because Malfoy is kissing him. Malfoy has his tongue in his mouth. Malfoy is gripping his shoulders hard enough that it hurts and it’s everything he wants and thought he’d never have because…

“Wait, wait,” Harry pulls back and worms his hands between their chests to push Malfoy away. 

“If you tell me this was all a massive prank, so help me, Potter, I’ll eviscerate you,” Malfoy snarls, but he looks more uncertain than angry. 

“No!” Harry’s heart clenches and he hastens to explain himself before he can fuck things up again, because Merlin knows, pushing Malfoy away just then had to have been one of the hardest things he’s done. “No, not a prank at all.” He rubs a hand over his mouth. _Malfoy kissed him._ “I can’t believe I’m cock-blocking myself but… what about Chad?”

Malfoy frowns, tilts his head to the side. “Chad?”

“Your boyfriend!”

“Oh!” Malfoy’s eyes widen and he huffs out a breathy chuckle. “Well. We broke up a while ago now, actually. I thought… I thought you knew.” He was looking at the floor, but now he meets Harry’s eyes and smiles faintly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “He wasn’t too happy about me vomiting bright red fruit punch on his favourite shoes, or in his car. Plus, you made me realise that I wanted more from life than a boyfriend who already acts like he’s fifty years old.”

“Really? So that means…”

“What do you think it means? Invite me in and kiss me properly, you prick.”

Harry grins as weeks, no, _months_ of pent up desire washes over him. He grabs Malfoy’s hand, dragging him into the room and shutting the door in one motion. Cupping Malfoy’s face with trembling hands, he pauses for a second, just to soak up the moment, to etch it into his brain, and then finally presses forward, spinning Malfoy around and pushing him back until they collapse onto his bed. 

“And that’s my cue to leave! Later, Harry, Malfoy.” Harry pauses in his assault on Draco’s neck as the door slams shut. Shit. He’d forgotten all about Trent. He makes a mental note to make it up to him later.

“Who was that?” Malfoy asks carefully.

“Trent, roommate,” Harry mutters, cutting off any further questions Malfoy might have with a deep kiss. He slides his hands beneath Malfoy’s shirt; his skin is soft and warm, and it quivers under his touch. Harry’s body shudders with the force of his desire. He wants to map every inch of Malfoy’s skin with his eyes, his fingers, his tongue. He drags the tip of his nose along Malfoy’s jawline, dropping soft kisses, breathing in his scent. He could drown in the feel and smell of Malfoy all around him and be happy about it.

“Hold on,” Malfoy says as Harry pushes his shirt up his chest, exposing those hairline scars that he doesn’t want to dwell on right now. He drops his hands and sits back on his haunches. “Before we take this any further, I need to know… What is this to you?”

“This?” Harry gestures between the two of them and Draco nods. Harry puffs out his cheeks. He knows if he says the wrong thing right now then it’ll be over before it’s even started, and he’s _so close_ to getting that elusive shag, he could cry. “What, um…What do you want it to be?”

“I asked you first.”

Harry presses his lips together. He’s still straddling Malfoy’s thighs and can feel him start to close himself off, as well as see the way his face pinches. He’s wary; clearly still expecting Harry to tell him it’s a joke, and that the words in the letter—though never meant to be read—are meaningless. Harry understands that feeling only too well, because why would Malfoy want him? It’s a ridiculous notion, and if he wasn’t currently sat over him, he wouldn’t believe he was really here. But he knows he needs to tell Malfoy the truth—Malfoy _deserves_ the truth—no matter how hard it is to put his heart on the line.

“I hope it’s the start of something,” Harry says quietly. “I _want_ it to be the start of something. I learnt with the whole Theo fiasco that I’m not interested in one night stands, not anymore. I want something real.”

“I don’t do one night stands either,” Malfoy replies, staring at Harry’s knee. His hands are at his side, smoothing over the duvet in small repetitive motions.

Harry can barely contain his excitement. Could he and Malfoy really want the same thing? “Are we doing it then?” He reaches out and trails a finger down Malfoy’s rumpled shirt, imagining the beautiful expanse of pale skin hidden beneath.

“It appears that way, yes.” Malfoy says, a coy smile spreading across his face. His hands leave the duvet to run up Harry’s thighs, tentatively at first, but then with more confidence as Harry releases a shaky breath.

“And you’ve… you know. Before?” Harry asks as the reality of what’s about to happen sinks in.

“I’m familiar with how it works. You?”

“Uh, not exactly?” Harry ducks his head away from Malfoy’s quizzical eyebrow to hide the all-consuming flush on his face. “I’ve shagged girls before and I’ve… you know. Done stuff to myself, but… I’ve not had any practical… ‘hands-on’ experience. With a guy.”

“I imagine you’re a fast learner with the right instruction,” Malfoy purrs, rolling his hips up. 

Harry groans and drops forward, caging Malfoy with his arms. The smile spreading across Malfoy’s face is positively sinful, and as he hooks a hand behind Harry’s head and brings their lips together, Harry says a silent prayer of thanks that he waited (however involuntarily) so long for this.

* * *

Harry doesn’t notice how late it is until he realises he can’t see the small crack that runs across his ceiling unless he moves his head in just… the right… way. The warm body beside him squirms and there’s a grumbled protest as he tilts his head from side to side. They should probably turn a light on, but that would mean getting up, and getting up would mean dislodging a certain warm body from his side, which he really doesn’t want to do. He smiles and smooths a hand down Malfoy’s back, all the way down to the pair of joggers he’d slipped on after they cleaned themselves off. _Harry’s_ joggers. The thought—the sight—of Malfoy in his trousers sends a frisson of lust dancing down his spine straight to his cock and he wonders idly whether Malfoy would be amenable to going again. He’s so comfortable though… and they should get up, get some dinner… he’ll just close his eyes for a few seconds—

“So what changed your mind?” 

_Is that Trent?_ Harry thinks, his mind slowly crawling out of its drowsy state. _Who is he talking too?_

“He wrote me a letter entitled ‘Reasons why we should fuck’, and honestly, I just wanted to find out if it was true.” 

_Ah, Malfoy. Wasn’t he asleep two seconds ago?_ Harry opens his eyes, squinting a little against the light from the bedside lamp. Trent says something Harry doesn’t quite catch, and Malfoy laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. But then what Malfoy said about his letter finally sinks in and Harry sits up, eyes still puffy from sleep, because… what? “Hey! I crossed _fuck_ out and changed it to ‘be friends’!”

Malfoy snorts. “But you meant fuck.”

He flops back on the bed with a sigh. “Yes, obviously I meant fuck.”

“He totally did,” Trent said, nodding sagely.

* * *

__  
**Reasons why we should ~~fuck~~ be friends.**  


_Malfoy,_  
I’m never going to send this to you but Hermione thought it might help to write down my thoughts before talking to you, and she’s normally right about stuff so I thought I’d give it a go.  
Most importantly, I’m sorry. I don’t 100% know what for, but it seems I can’t open my mouth without pissing you off, so consider this a blanket ‘sorry’ for everything I’ve done to annoy you or hurt you (yeah yeah, I know there’s a lot. It’s a really big blanket, okay?). We’ve both been shitty with each other in the past so don’t go thinking you’ve got the monopoly on that.  
ANYWAY, when I first saw you here, I couldn’t believe it. I was pissed off. I was having a shitty time those first couple of months. It didn’t help that you never wanted to talk to me. So I decided I wanted to make you talk to me. I thought we could be friends—you were the first person from home I’d seen, the first person here I knew for sure was a wizard—and that’s why I tried to get you to tutor me.  
And then the road trip... Even though we never would have chosen to rideshare together, I’m glad the universe pushed us together like that, because otherwise I might never have realised how much I like you. Yes, the whole point of going to California was to get laid, but that was before I got to know you better. Before I fell for you.  
As you maybe already guessed, Theo was the guy Blaise set me up with. Don’t get mad at him though. I’ve been kind of lonely and he was just trying to help me out. I need you to know that Theo and I never did anything more than what you saw on the dance floor, though. I shouldn’t have even done that, but I was drunk, and seeing you with Chad made me so jealous. I wanted to be the one you were dancing with and laughing with and drinking horrible vodka punch with, but instead I had to watch you do that with him. So, I used Theo to make you jealous back. I guess maybe it worked a little too well? Unless I’m misreading the situation. I hope ~~that dickhead~~ Chad knows how lucky he is.  
But yeah… I really like you, and I’m sorry, but I think that makes me act like a bit of a twat whenever I’m around you. 

_No one has ever made me feel like you do._

_Harry xxx_

_P.S._  
I’m sorry for pretending I needed a tutor to get you to trick you into talking to me.  
I’m sorry you ended up having to car share with me and then I goaded you into mooning that police officer.  
I’m sorry you got abducted and almost shot.  
I’m sorry for not telling you I was only going to California to get laid.  
I’m sorry you have a boyfriend 

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of "Lights, Camera, Drarry" (LCDrarry), a film-, TV- and theatre-inspired Drarry fest.  
>  Creations are posted anonymously during the posting period. The creators will be revealed on [tumblr](http://lcdrarry.tumblr.com) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LCDrarry2019/works) on 15 June.


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